The Voldemort Diaries
by notwolf
Summary: After the fall of Voldemort, Severus found some interesting reading material left behind by the dark lord...but what else did Voldemort leave behind? Stars Severus, Tom Riddle, and Lucius, among others.
1. And So It Begins

**The Voldemort Diaries**—Chapter 1 (And So It Begins)

(SPOILER ALERT WARNING! Please note this story is a direct spinoff from my fanfic _Death Eater No More_. I am working on the assumption that you have read that fic, and thus there will be no explanations of characters or situations that occurred in that story but carry over here. If you have not read that fic, I'm afraid you will be hopelessly lost, and even chapter one here will cause major spoilers for _Death Eater No More_. Please read _Death Eater No More_ first, you won't be sorry if the reviews are any indication.)

**December 1936**

A solitary boy sat shivering against a forbidding grey cinderblock wall, his knees drawn up to his chest to conserve heat, his shoulders hunched. Piercing dark eyes scanned the snow-covered playground where a multitude of children of all ages gathered. The older teens engaged themselves with clustering in small cliques to talk and laugh while the younger children ran about chasing each other, pitching snowballs, bouncing a saggy ball. The boy hadn't been invited to join his comrades; he had not taken part in a voluntary group activity for so long he honestly couldn't remember a time that he'd been a true part of the whole.

Tom Riddle scowled at no one in particular. It was for the best. He was better than they were, after all. Not that the orphanage matrons or the school teachers were alert enough to pick up on it. One day he'd make something of himself and he'd show them all, they'd be sorry for shunting him aside, for not recognizing that he was special.

A burst of fury shot through his veins. Across the yard a lad about Tom's age approached at a fast clip as he pursued the barely inflated ball over the cement. Just before reaching the spot in front of Tom, he lost his balance and tumbled forward to land hard on one shoulder. A shrill scream split the air, followed by hysterical sobs.

Tom slid against the wall to his feet as the matron in charge hurried over, her accusing gaze already fixed on Riddle. "What did you do?" she bellowed as she bent over the injured child. "William, what ails you?"

"I f-fell," William stammered, his face nearly as white as the snow he lay in. "It hurts, it hurts!"

The woman helped the boy to his feet with the aid of a teenaged youth. "Did Tom trip you?" she persisted.

William swung his head limply. Had he not felt so utterly wretched, he'd have gladly blamed Riddle solely to watch him receive a scolding. "I just fell." And then he proceeded to faint.

The woman turned a sharp eye on Tom, who glared imperiously back at her. "I never touched him." He spun on his heel and stalked away, a smug smile lighting his face.

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**March 25, 2000**

_Dec. 31, 1936_

_Today is my eleventh birthday. Nobody ever notices, so of course it was a shock when those frumps who run the orphanage gave me—of all things—a bloody blank book! They had the gall to look at me as if expecting gratitude. At first I was tempted to throw it back in their simpering faces, but I held back. I mustn't make them too cross with me. I figure I may as well give it a go. We're not allowed to write in our schoolbooks, so this has a subversive feel to it that is rather exciting._

_ I'm not stupid. I know they only gave me this diary in hopes of reading what I write or to keep me away from the others as much as they can. They've had 'doctors' look at me, now they're trying to trip me up in writing. The joke is on them then, isn't it? I plan to hide it where they'll never find it, so I am free to write whatever I like. And why would I want to hang around those brats here? They hate me and avoid me, and I'm glad. I don't need any of them._

_ The staff hate and avoid me as well, like everything around here is my fault. Was it my fault that pug faced William fell down and broke his collarbone in two places? Bad example—but I never __touched__ him. And it definitely was__ not__ my doing that the furnace broke down yesterday and we're all freezing our arses off! They only caught me in the cellar because I was trying to fix the damned thing! It's not like I enjoy being cold, for crying out loud, why would I sabotage it?_

_ Didn't matter, though, they yelled at me and sent me to bed like a baby. They'll always find ways to blame Tom Riddle, orphanage scapegoat. I hate it here. If there was anywhere to run, I'd be gone._

Severus came to the end of the entry, his ebony eyes lingering over the cramped together, slanted words, reluctant to let go. As clearly as if he were witnessing it in a pensieve, in his mind he saw an eleven-year-old Tom Riddle huddled on his bed with a drab grey blanket round his head and back, hunched over the diary scribbling his thoughts. Sharp images of William tripping over his own feet and Tom's upbraiding for destroying the heater were seared into his brain. Snape felt an odd, sudden burst of….kinship, which wrenched him back to reality. The very notion of identifying with Voldemort on any level made him want to vomit.

"Severus, are you alright?"

The voice of his wife shattered the fragile mental image and caused him to start. He hadn't heard her come in, which bothered him more than might seem natural. After all this time since Voldemort's death, he still valued the lessons he'd learned from nearly twenty years as a spy; to be caught off guard made him feel incredibly vulnerable.

Instinctively he snapped shut the diary before turning around. "I'm fine, Aline. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were making a little retching noise, I thought you were sick. You look very engrossed in your reading. What have you got there?" Aline crossed the room to Severus' desk and peered down at the plain brown cover of a book roughly the size of Severus' palm. One hand casually caressed her husband's silky mane while the other reached toward the diary.

Severus intercepted her hand between both of his and brought it to his lips. "It's merely a book I found yesterday in Voldemort's secret room at the old castle ruins. You'd find it very dry."

"Maybe," she said, bending down to kiss him. "But you've spent a good hour on it already, so it can't be too boring."

"An hour?" he repeated in disbelief, cocking an eyebrow. Had she been anyone else, he might have included his trademark sneer. And then he noticed how dim it was in the room, no light was coming through the window. It hadn't yet been dusk when he began to read, and it had only been two small pages. How could he have spent so much time on _one blasted entry_?

"Come on, supper's ready and I'm starved—and so are the babies." She patted her four-month-along belly bump. "I made spaghetti. I think they like it."

"Just like their mother," remarked Severus as he rose from his chair smiling indulgently. He stroked her abdomen with a rush of passionate ardor before planting a hard kiss on her mouth. And to think how often he had teased Lucius and made fun of him when he acted the same way toward Narcissa! Now he understood why. "I love you so much."

"You'd better," Aline smiled back, chocolate brown eyes twinkling. Taking his hand, she attempted to pull him toward the dining room of the formerly Prince estate. "We mustn't keep the twins waiting."

"Heaven forbid," he answered drolly. His one hand quivered briefly over Tom's diary; in a lightning move he snatched it up and surreptitiously stuffed it into the pocket of his robes before allowing Aline to drag him off for supper.

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Lucius smacked his lips gently and his eyes fluttered halfway open. Groggily he peered down at the weight on his chest, expecting to see Narcissa's blond hair splayed over him. He started softly. It was a blond head alright, though a few shades lighter than Narcissa's, and he smiled as he caressed his son's back with a loving sigh.

Edging his feet over the side of the sofa, he slowly maneuvered his way into a seated position so as not to wake the year-old boy. Inching his way to his feet, he stretched his cramping back. This was the third night in a row that Ladon had been cranky and fussy, unable to sleep and driving his parents mad. The child wasn't ill, Dr. Livingston had thoroughly examined him and given him a clean bill of health; at the moment Lucius was at his wit's end from lack of sleep. If this continued, he'd be forced to ask Severus for a sleeping potion. As much as he hated to drug his child, there came a point where he had to weigh the pros and cons and make a decision accordingly. And the potion wouldn't harm the boy….

He glided across the floor, taking the stairs in a smooth gait, and headed down the hall to his room where the heinously expensive carved crib that had once been Draco's was set up beside his bed. As with Draco, Lucius and Narcissa had welcomed Ladon into their bed to make feeding easier without having to get up in the night, and to give the baby a sense of security, which cut down substantially on the incessant crying. When Narcissa had been kidnapped and tossed through the Veil by goblins, Lucius had clung to Ladon ever more tightly, and that grip was coming back to haunt him. Ever since Khala's birth in December, when the new baby had usurped his position, Ladon had made clear his disapproval, mainly through nightmares and clinginess.

As he passed the nursery, used only for bathing and changing the tots, Lucius spied a pair of long legs stretched out from the rocking chair. He remembered Draco had carried his sister upstairs some time earlier, allowing Narcissa a bit of freedom from the demands of motherhood. He started on by, then came to an abrupt halt. Slowly he backed up two, three paces and peeked into the nursery. Yes, those certainly were another set of legs!

Stepping into the room, he spied Draco cuddling the slumbering Khala to his chest as he rocked on the chair. Across from him, leaning on the changing table, was Regulus. "Regulus, what are you still doing here at this hour?" asked Lucius, fishing for his pocket watch and unable to access it due to the boy plastered on his chest. "It's got to be after midnight."

"Closer to one, actually," grinned Regulus. "Draco and I got to talking, and—well, you know how it goes."

"What I know is Draco has to be up early, we've got a meeting in the morning with my real estate lawyer," replied Lucius. With one hand he made a motion for Draco to get up; he chose to ignore the rolling eyes accompanied by a martyr-like sigh.

"Do you mind if I tag along?" asked Reg.

Draco looked askance at his cousin. "Why would you want to? It's incredibly tedious and—" He glanced at Lucius' stern countenance then back to Regulus. "—and I'm so very glad to be learning…whatever it is I'm learning," he finished lamely.

In a tone not far from scolding Lucius remarked, "You are learning how to maintain and grow the family fortune. When I'm gone, that will be your responsibility, Draco, unless you'd prefer your children hire out as common labourers!"

_Can you be a tad more dramatic, Father?_ The words hung on the tip of Draco's tongue before he wisely swallowed them. The Malfoy fortune as it now stood could handily last another three generations living the high life. Nonetheless, contradicting a sleep-deprived Lucius Malfoy didn't seem like the brightest idea, so Draco merely nodded and said, "I'll be there, Father."

"Can I come?" Regulus repeated. While living alone at Spinner's End had its perks, loneliness and boredom hardly counted as such. Besides, their enterprise sounded like fun.

"If you like," Lucius agreed reluctantly. "I'm considering purchasing the Pemwillow property in Dorset. Draco and I are to visit it tomorrow."

Regulus cocked his head, squinting ever so slightly. "You're thinking of buying that land? I'm no expert, but it seems like a pretty poor investment."

"What do you mean?"

"My dad used to visit Mr. Pemwillow sometimes, he'd take me along to play with the old man's grandson. Mostly the place looks nice enough, only when it rains it's a swamp for days after, and the cellar leaks really bad. I got a nasty lung infection one year from the mold—"

"Is there a point to this, Reg?" asked Draco, looking bored.

"Duh," returned Regulus snidely. "You can't build there, and the house is probably falling apart by now. I suppose you could grow crops, only your dad's no farmer." Regulus stopped to gaze curiously at Lucius. "What _do_ you want it for?"

Lucius let out a low chuckle. "An investment….now that you've enlightened me as to some of the finer points, I'm not so sure I do want it. Perhaps tomorrow you can offer suggestions on some other properties I've got my eye on. Be here at eight o'clock—or better yet stay in one of the guest rooms if you prefer and I'll send an elf to wake you."

"Yeah, thanks, Lucius. I am kind of tired. Goodnight to you both." He wandered off down the hall and slipped into a nearby guest room.

Lucius gestured for his son to follow as he led the way in the opposite direction. "Come on, son. We need to get Khala and Ladon to bed. You know, you might take a lesson from Regulus. At least he _acts_ interested."

"Maybe he _is_ interested," Draco said dryly as he trailed behind. "I've never cared much for business—hey, I've a great idea! Teach Reg how to oversee the fortune and I can hire him as my money manager!"

Lucius didn't deign to reply. Draco was a Malfoy, he was going to learn what he needed to learn whether he liked it or not. If, when Lucius had passed on, Draco decided to hire Regulus, that was his business, but the boy would be firmly grounded in the family tradition regardless.

To his dismay, Lucius found himself considering the prospect of mentoring Regulus. He'd always deemed the kid to be scatterbrained and a good deal flaky, yet in retrospect he'd done some pretty sneaky, clever things worthy of his Slytherin and Black heritage—stealing Voldemort's locket among them. That took guts, even if Black had managed to get himself killed in the process. If Reg excelled in the business world, his reputation would gain him a good position in the Ministry—a built-in connection for Lucius. And God only knew the kid needed someone to advise him on investing his own money so he didn't end up like his idiot brother Sirius, in training to be an _auror_, of all things. Lucius shuddered to the core. He really, really hated aurors.

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Smooth, rhythmic breathing told Severus his wife was asleep. Considering it was three o'clock in the morning, that was to be expected. Even so, he gazed over at her and waved a hand in front of her closed eyes. Ever so slowly he disengaged himself from her arms then slid to the edge of the bed and silently stood up. Taking his wand from the nightstand, he tiptoed to the chair he'd laid his robes on and began to feel in the pockets. Ah, there it was!

Quietly, oh so quietly he slipped from the room and down the stairs to his study. He closed the door and settled in at his desk. Suddenly he turned back, aimed his wand, and the lock snapped shut. Satisfied that he would not be interrupted, he laid the diary on his desk, opened it to the next entry, and leaned forward to immerse himself in Tom Riddle's life.

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"Severus, where were you last night?" Clad only in a sleeveless maroon nightshirt that fell to her knees, her long hair disheveled, Aline crossed her arms as she stared down the man sitting at the breakfast table swilling his second cup of coffee.

"Reading," he answered curtly. At the flash in her eyes, he decided it was best to mollify the pregnant woman before all hell broke loose. "I got up early and I didn't want to wake you."

"You're not even dressed!"

"That's part of the _not wanting to wake you_," growled Severus in return.

Aline sidled forward until her baby bump collided with Severus' arm. "What were you reading?" It sounded more like a challenge than a question.

For the briefest moment Snape considered lying, and the thought both surprised and horrified him. He loved and respected Aline as he'd never felt about another human being, he simply could not lie to her. And even if he did, she'd find out. Her clairvoyance would eventually trip him up, she'd lose her faith and trust in him—she'd probably leave him, taking the babies with her back to Salem! His heart rate increased at an alarming rate until it felt like a kettle drum on speed, though his face remained impassive.

"I was reading one of Voldemort's diaries, I found it in the castle," he admitted, looking down at the table. To his own ears it sounded vaguely suspicious, he could only imagine what it sounded like to Aline. He didn't need to see the shock on her face to know it was there. He forced himself to face her. "Don't worry, it's not a horcrux and its not like the one Ginny Weasley used to open the Chamber of Secrets. It's no more than a diary."

"Voldemort's diary," Aline echoed softly, concern etched on her face and in her voice. "I see what you've been finding so enthralling, then. Have you finished it? You've been gone from bed since at least four o'clock when I got up to use the bathroom."

Severus' blood froze in his veins. Not again, how could this be? He'd read only two more entries—_in four hours_? He knew of no spell that could rush time along in this manner, and frankly it was very disquieting. To top it off, Tom's entries had honestly not been that interesting. "No, love," he murmured at last into his cup. "I still have quite a bit to go."

"Severus, you're worrying me. I'd think you'd want nothing to do with that maniac who made you his lackey for so many years. Is it about his murders, the tortures? Why is this so important you have to sneak out of bed to read it?" she pleaded with him.

"It's not any of that, Aline, it's just the ramblings of a little boy," he answered, putting his arm behind her and drawing her closer, laying his head on her abdomen. "It's not so important, I won't do it again."

Notably he made no promise to give up the book entirely. He could refrain from reading it at night, and he would—he'd said he would and he always kept his word. Yet for a reason he couldn't begin to fathom, he desired very much to continue reading this inane little journal ….more than that, he _needed_ very much to continue reading.


	2. Power Play

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 2 (Power Play)

**April 1937**

Tom was excited, though he knew better than to let it show. It created vulnerability, weakness—things those stronger or in a position of power were apt to exploit. List of required items in hand, clutched so tightly the ink on the parchment rubbed off a bit on his sweaty palm, the boy looked up at the sign over a dismal looking establishment wedged between two modern buildings: _Leaky Cauldron_. As the oddly clad old professor had assured him, no one else passing by seemed aware of its existence. The 'muggles' walked on by without a glance.

The boy darted off Charing Cross Road through the door as soon as he ascertained no one was watching; truly, he suspected no one cared what a lad might be doing alone here, but thought it prudent nonetheless. Heart beating a staccato thump against his ribs, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim atmosphere. The place was much larger than it appeared from outside, and even to Tom's limited experience seemed old-fashioned. To his consternation, lit candles floated in the air to provide what light they had; people in the queerest, most outlandish outfits he'd ever seen lounged at tables and at the bar. For a full minute he simply stared in fascination.

Remembering what Professor Dumbledore had told him, he reluctantly approached the man at the bar serving drinks. "Are you Tom?" he said point blank.

"Yes. What can I do for you, young man?"

"I want—" Riddle pronounced, then paused before affecting a polite smile. "Professor Dumbledore said you'd show me the way to Diagon Alley." He held up the list of needed supplies.

The barman squinted to get a better look at the child. "Here to buy school supplies already? Industrious lad! You're alone, then?"

Tom Riddle jerked his head in annoyed agreement. The wizard came out from behind the bar, slung the rag he used to clean up over his shoulder, and plucked a familiar-looking stick from his shirt pocket. The boy's eyes widened in anticipation.

"Follow me." The adult wizard led the youth to the back of the pub into a small, walled courtyard. He sized up the wall as if counting bricks and then tapped it three times with his wand. A hole appeared at that spot and grew larger and larger until it became an archway leading to a narrow, cobbled street. "There you go, son. You come back here the same way you leave."

"Thank you," Riddle murmured, solely because he thought Dumbledore might find out if he weren't courteous.

He stepped through the archway, which promptly closed behind him. All along the twisty road crammed on both sides with rickety-looking buildings there were witches and wizards going about their business in their peculiar robes and hats, many of the men sporting uncommonly long hair, most not paying him a bit of mind except perhaps to wonder about _his_ attire. He referred to a hand drawn map the professor had given him with specific locations marked where he could make his purchases. Already Tom's mind was churning. Perhaps today he'd only have time to accomplish the task of gathering necessities, but there existed not a doubt that he'd be returning to this wondrously strange place as often as he could before September 1st.

What with gawking intently into every shop he passed, it took Tom a full hour to make it down the alley to the second-hand robe shop where he allowed the proprietor to fit him as quickly as possible before heading to Ollivander's. He'd stop in at Flourish and Blott's for his textbooks on the way back out, no point in lugging them along the whole afternoon.

Ollivander's turned out to be a narrow, shabby place with a bell ringing to announce Tom's presence. Thousands of boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, giving the shop an even more cramped feel. From seemingly nowhere a youngish man—Tom gauged him to be in his late twenties, possibly thirty—stood before him. Blond hair and strange silvery eyes blended into his face to make a rather unremarkable, ethereal appearance.

"How may I help you?" The voice was soft, but clear and strong.

"Dumble—Professor Dumbledore said I can buy a wand here," answered Tom cautiously.

Ollivander peered keenly at the boy, noting the parchment gripped in his fist. "Of course. Ordinarily a lad comes with his parents."

"They're dead," said Tom in a blank, toneless voice. His mother was, at any rate, and his father might be—it wasn't technically a lie.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Ollivander murmured, ushering the boy forward, drawing a measuring tape from round his neck. "What's your name then?" He began measuring Tom's arm and general height.

"Tom Riddle." He lurched his head away from the intrusive tape in his face.

"I'm Mr. Ollivander, I suppose you gathered as much." The man smiled, meeting no smile in return. "Here, let's try you out on this wand. Sumac wood, highly rare in a British wand. Eight inches. Dragon heartstring. Give it a flick."

Nothing happened. They tried several more wands before settling on the one that gave Tom tingles down his arm and made his heart race with excitement. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, phoenix tail feather. Riddle handed the man his sack of galleons, carefully noted how many Ollivander removed, shoved the bag back in his pocket, and dashed out holding the prized wand to his chest.

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**April 29, 2000**

_April 17, 1937_

_ Yesterday I saw the most fascinating things! I went to buy my supplies for the new school, but I wasn't ready for—well, everything! The people dress like freaks from a sideshow, the wizards and witches I mean. And the place, Diagon Alley, is like nothing I ever saw or imagined. I can't wait to go back and explore. I heard some people talking about another section called Nok Turn Alley or some such rubbish. It sounds intriguing…forbidden._

_ I got my wand! So far I haven't been able to make it do anything except start a smoulder in the cafeteria trash bin, but that's something. I've begun trying spells from the book, with no success yet. _

_When the brats heard me coming back, they all stepped into the hall to stare at me. Mrs. Cole told them I'll be leaving, I know she did. Dull as they are, even they would have figured something was up from the bag I was carrying that was stuffed with my robes and books and cauldron and such. I want to tell, I want to see their jealous faces when they hear where I'm going. But I can't, Dumbledore wouldn't like it and I can't afford to tick him off or he may change his mind about letting me go to Hogwarts._

_ I have started practicing being polite with the staff here. They looked funny at me, but when I get to Hogwarts I must be the ideal pupil. No one will surpass me in anything. I can't wait to learn so much magic, I'll be the most powerful wizard in the world, just wait!_

Here the diary came to an abrupt end. Although there were numerous blank pages remaining, no more entries were visible. Severus' glazed eyes gradually returned to normal; his wand waved over the book with every revealing spell he knew, to no avail. There simply was nothing there to find. Riddle had stopped writing for whatever reason.

Severus had been to Diagon Alley with his mother ever since he could remember, he'd been around witches and wizards all his life. None of it surprised or shocked him, and yet he'd just spent the afternoon seeing Diagon Alley for the first time through the eyes of a young Tom Riddle, and it was glorious and exhilarating! What did cause him pause, however, was that very fact: he'd seen Diagon Alley as clearly as if he were walking there himself, he'd met a much younger Ollivander and the proprietor of the second-hand robe shop, he'd felt the jubilation of dreams unfolding…yet Tom hadn't written about _any_ of that.

Voldemort had found a way to encapsulate his memories into a diary—the horcrux—but this was different. Wasn't it? There were actual entries, there was no interaction through writing in the book. Or was there? Severus hesitated for a long moment, took up his quill, uncapped the ink and dipped it in, then let the quill hover over the page. At last he wrote haltingly on a clean page: _Are you there?_

He waited, scarcely breathing, for the words to disappear, for a reply to materialize. Nothing happened. The words stayed exactly the same, and no answer was forthcoming. Snape let out a relieved breath. It was only a diary after all, despite the considerable amount of time he spent reading it. Perhaps the time flew by so rapidly because he was so absorbed in the reading—yes, that was it. That had to be it.

From his desk at Hogwarts where he'd brought the set of four diaries to store under lock and key, he looked up across the room at the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, who was studying him rather intently. He couldn't ask the old Headmaster for his opinion—or possibly expertise—on the matter, as it would certainly turn into a session of admonition about 'meddling in things he didn't understand' or an overt command to stop what he was doing. Well, dammit, he was not a child or a spy slave anymore and he would bloody well do what he wanted to do!

Snape shoved back his chair, secured the book in his lower drawer beneath the other three diaries, and stood up. "Albus, I'll see you tomorrow. I have a function to attend."

Dumbledore's perennially twinkling orbs lanced him and rooted him to the spot with an uncharacteristic sternness. "What is that you're reading? Those Voldemort diaries, am I correct?" Receiving no more than a defiant stare, he went on, "I don't like this, Severus. You seem almost catatonic for sometimes hours on end while you're perusing them."

"As usual, you're exaggerating," Snape retorted, throwing his cape over his shoulders. Would that Albus had been so concerned for his welfare all those years he'd been forced to spend time with the _real_ Voldemort! Water under the bridge. He needed to go home and change his clothes in order to escort his lovely wife to the party. "I'm merely trying to glean what I can from his life. Goodbye." He hurried out before Albus could respond.

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_Draco was down in the orchard with Astoria snogging away, the two of them clutching each other so tightly it would make Lucius himself blush. Suddenly Astoria pulled back with a dismayed squeal._

_ "Sorry, did I bite your tongue or something?" Draco asked, troubled by her distress. Still holding her by the arms, he tried to steer her back in his direction._

_ "There! Look!" Astoria hissed, pointing beyond the apple trees._

_ Draco turned around warily, half expecting to see his father tapping his foot and frowning—which he deemed would be a powerfully hypocritical act, considering the way the man continually pawed and smooched at Mother. When he saw what Astoria was freaking out over he lurched backward, arms outstretched, in front of her._

_ A huge, fat blue dragon was at the moment waddling up to the nearest tree, where it sniffed at the green buds of unripe apples. It nipped one into its mouth; its eyes grew round as the moon and its jaws appeared to pucker. The green apple flew like a projectile rocket out of its mouth, struck a tree trunk, ricocheted off, and landed in the grass a short distance from Draco and Astoria._

_ "Draco," Astoria whispered, hanging onto his hand as he moved slowly forward._

_ "Go get my father," he whispered back. "Tell him Xerxes is here."_

_ The girl didn't need to be told twice. She popped out leaving Draco facing the daunting creature. He'd ridden this dragon, but did Xerxes remember him? He knew Father from all the times he'd gone to the vault, he loved Father, for lack of a better word. What did he feel for Draco?_

_ Without thinking the lad murmured, "Xerxes, do you know me?"  
_

_The dragon lifted his head at the sound of his name. He peered at Draco then made a whinnying noise in his throat. An instant later he was plunging through the orchard at what could be described as a trot if he were a horse, sniffing the air ahead of him and gurgling playfully. Draco cast a rueful glance at the broken branches Xerxes left in his wake. Perhaps he ought to have gone to meet the dragon on the lawn. Xerxes skidded to a halt in front of Draco, tearing up the ground with his talons. He gave another sniff before extending his snout to be petted, and cooed happily when the youth did so._

_ "Draco, is everything alright?" Lucius had his wand out and ready. Astoria peeked her head out from behind his back._

_ "Yes, Father, I'm fine. Your dragon has come to see you."  
_

_Already Lucius was speedily advancing on his 'pet', his grey eyes shining with excitement. He'd been so disconsolate at the thought that Xerxes had been gone for good the last time he left. "Xerxes, how are you? You certainly look well fed, your scales are shiny and clean."_

_ For the briefest instant a pang of jealousy stabbed through his heart: what if some other human was tending to him? But no, Xerxes had known no other humans while chained in front of the Malfoy vault. Lucius stroked the creature's face as he laid his head on Xerxes' neck._

_ "He's got a clutch of dragons newly hatched, Father. He wants to show you his children," said Draco as he patted the animal's rump._

_ Both Astoria and Lucius sent the youth peculiar stares. Astoria ventured, "Draco, how could you know that?"_

_ Draco hesitated, suddenly confused. How had he known that? "I don't know. The images are in my mind."_

_ Lucius continued to look intently at his son. Was it possible for a wizard to establish a telepathic connection to a dragon? He'd heard of many cases of witches and wizards communicating with cats or other familiars…why not a dragon? It would explain in large part Draco's startling turnabout concerning Muggle baiting and also his sudden empathy with Ladon. If Draco somehow communed with Xerxes, felt the pain of his mistreatment, it all made perfect sense._

_ "Astoria, perhaps you should return to the manor," Lucius suggested in his that's-not-a-suggestion-it's-an-order nice voice. "Draco and I are going with Xerxes to see his babies."  
_

_"Me?" asked Draco in bewilderment. "He wants you."_

_ "And you seem to understand what he wants, son," explained Lucius calmly_.

And so here Lucius and Draco were, straddling the back of this immense, playful creature whose green-tipped wings beat the air, sending them forward at unprecedented speeds and nearly suffocating Lucius from the force of the wind in his face. He covered his mouth with his cloak to breathe more freely while Draco tried to act nonchalant while wrapping his arm about his father's waist to keep from toppling to his death from the height. They could barely make out individual dwellings, whole towns flew by in a few swoops on Xerxes' wings.

"Where are we going, Father?" Draco shouted over the powerful wind.

"Why don't you ask Xerxes?" Lucius smirked back. Realizing his son could neither see nor appreciate the effort, he said, "Up ahead I see water. I think he's taking us across the channel."

Sure enough, moments later they could see nothing below them save the glistening sea. Ahead lay France, behind lay home, below lay certain death if this dragon dropped them. It shouldn't be surprising, Lucius surmised, that the beast and his mate had sought out an unpopulated area in which to live, hunt, and raise their offspring. If his guess was correct, and he smugly assumed it was, they were headed to the Pyrenees Mountains. From what his tutors had crammed into his head so many years before, he recalled that the mountain range contained a number of waterfalls, high snow covered peaks in the central region—ideal for a seclusion-loving dragon, and a large expanse of wooded mountains to the west where surely plenty of bite-sized animals roamed. A perfect situation, really.

They glided along smoothly in relative silence for what seemed ages to the impatient elder Malfoy. As the mountain range neared, his heart quickened in anticipation, his head swiveled as his eyes searched out the nest. He was going to see real live dragonettes! They maneuvered and swerved along ravines and peaks, then suddenly swooped upward, causing Lucius to throw his arms around Xerxes' neck at the same time Draco's arms clamped wildly about his waist.

And then they were there in a moment too brief for the humans to properly assimilate. Xerxes flew up past an enormous red dragon with green tinting her scales who let out a blood curdling shriek at the intruders. Xerxes bellowed back and the red creature settled back on the nest eyeing the humans suspiciously, the inner membrane of her eyes narrowing to vertical slits.

Xerxes landed lightly on a wide granite ledge several meters from the nest, which was a full two meters across in itself. Three tiny dragons—relatively speaking, of course—bobbed about inside. Xerxes squatted to allow Draco and Lucius to slide from his back, and he waddled toward the nest looking every bit the proud papa. Huddled at his side as a shield against the mother, the humans edged forward to stop short of the nest.

One baby, the largest, was blue like his father with red tips to his pitifully flailing wings. The second had fiery red scales on the body, with blue and green flecks along the length of her tail and wings. The third was a pure composite of his parents, an almost paisley pattern of blue and red with floppy green ears thrown in for good measure. Bits of shell lay scattered inside; any larger pieces had obviously been pitched over the side.

Lucius sucked in an awed breath. He'd never seen anything so exquisite except his own dear wife and children. "Xerxes, they're beautiful!" he murmured, unable to take his eyes off the squiggling tots.

Xerxes let a puff of steam from his nostrils. If Lucius didn't know better, he'd swear the animal was _smiling_. He threw an arm across the dragon's neck to pat him affectionately while the dragon purred. In the nest the round-eyed, head-heavy fledglings studied the newcomers in a way that made the wizards feel strangely like an entrée. When the paisley dragonette tipped over and began to peep pathetically, his mother righted him with her snout; he then opened his mouth wide to caw and beg for food. Momentarily his siblings set to flopping clumsily and gurgling as well, joining in the fray. The mother shoved her mouth up to each in turn, allowing them to peck at the regurgitated remains of her last meal.

"Gross," Draco said, laughing. "They are cute, though."

"I wish we could stay and watch for a while," Lucius said in a wistful voice. Sadly, they had a party to attend, and if they weren't back soon Narcissa might have his head on a platter. He thought the baby dragons might like that, and chuckled under his breath. "Ask Xerxes if we can come back again to see them."

Draco made his way to Xerxes' head and repeated the question. The only response he received was a blank stare accompanied by a single, long blink. Draco turned to his father and shrugged.

"_I_ could have done _that_," Lucius commented snidely. Fortunately for Draco, he held back a burning desire to demand why the older wizard had not done so. "Try thinking the question, like telepathy."

The lad sighed and shook his head, but he did as he was asked with no more success than the first time, unless a massive sneeze in his face counted as a reply. Frowning, he wiped his cheek with his handkerchief. "Father, I'm not getting anything. I don't know how to do this, I don't even know what I'm doing!"

"So you can't tell what he's thinking?"

"He's a dragon—I'm not sure he's thinking _anything_!" Draco snarled, more out of embarrassment for his failure than true anger.

Still not willing to give up, Lucius persisted with, "You said in the orchard that there were images in your mind. Try sending him an image of us leaving and then returning."  
"What am I, a printing press?" Draco retorted, then ducked his head at Lucius' scowl. In the most simplistic manner he could manage, Draco envisioned the scene his father had directed.

The dragon whinnied softly in his throat and jerked his head upward at a peak some distance higher up the mountain where a patch of snow continued to cling.

"I-I think he's saying yes, but we have to go up there." Draco pointed to the forbidding, cold mountain. "I get the idea we'd have to wait to be recognized."

"That makes sense," Lucius said, much cheered. "He doesn't want his wife to torch us or the babies to try to eat us." He resisted the urge to reach out to the dragonettes, lest the female grimacing at him snap his hand off at the wrist. One needed no telepathy to ascertain her feelings! He patted Xerxes once more and paced backward. "We'll see you soon, Xerxes. Perhaps I can bring you and your wife a rat or two." It couldn't hurt to butter up the red beast, after all.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"How dare you run off on a dragon—and take Draco with you!" Narcissa shrieked.

"It wasn't just any dragon, my love, it was—"

"I don't care if it was your pet! What were you thinking? If you'd come back missing a limb or dead, I'd make you very sorry!" The fury in her voice and countenance were offset by the evident note of fear for her loved ones.

Lucius smiled back at her just a bit too patronising. "I dare say were that the case, I'd already be very sorry."

"Don't start with me, Malfoy—you're skating on thin ice," his wife returned menacingly. She plucked her daughter's miniature probing hand out of her hair, which until five minutes ago had been done up in a tidy knot on top of her head, showcasing her delicate bone structure. Now several thick tresses hung down over her eyes and back. Her gold sheen dress sported a spit-up stain on the shoulder. "I have to get ready—again. You take Khala and Ladon. And you'd better change, you've got dragon smell on you. You, too, Draco!"

So saying she foisted the infant onto Lucius and stomped upstairs. Ladon merely stood clutching his father's leg and looking like he wanted to cry; he wasn't used to his parents arguing in front of him. Draco gave a sidelong glance at Astoria, relieved to see she didn't appear as upset as the Malfoy matriarch. The young lady seemed to be holding back a laugh with some difficulty.

"Draco, take care of your brother," Lucius ordered before marching off with his daughter tugging at his long locks and giggling.

Astoria waited till Lucius had huffed out of the room to speak. "Your parents are so cute. Come on, Draco, I'll watch Ladon while you change," she offered. "Dragons have a kind of fire-ish smell, your mum's not wrong."

"You're not mad at me?" he asked.

She shook her head and winked at him. "We're not married yet."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I suppose Narcissa was pissed," Severus observed from his spot directly in front of the stairway at Spinner's End where he stood catching up on events with his friend. In addition to new paint in every room and completely replacing all the furniture, as well as fresh curtains and accents, the bookcase had been removed, the area opened up quite remarkably.

"She'll come around," Lucius assured him confidently. "By the way, this is the first time I've been here since Aline and Narcissa redecorated your hovel—I mean house." He didn't look vaguely chagrined by his 'slip up'. "The place is so open and big, so…not filthy and grotesque like before. I'm no longer afraid to use the furniture."

"You do have a way with words," Severus commented dryly. "A deplorably inadequate way." For as long as he'd known Malfoy, the latter had been unhesitatingly outspoken with him, which he supposed he should take as a form of praise, seeing as Lucius wasn't exactly forthright with many people. Still, at times it would be nice…oh, never mind.

"I was complimenting you," Lucius answered, unperturbed.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sadly, Lucius, I realise that."

He grunted as Regulus bumped into him coming down the stairs from the master bedroom to which Reg had laid claim—or more accurately, from the top of the stairs where he'd been sitting to regain his balance before coming down. "Sorry, Sev. Hey, Lucius! Cool dragon story!" The slur in his voice along with the half empty glass of firewhiskey in his hand made it apparent he'd been imbibing. "Did you tell Sev'rus about mem—mentoring me? Teaching me ev'rything you know?"

Lucius actually glowed a brilliant shade of scarlet. This hardly reflected well on himself or the boy! He yanked the firewhiskey from Regulus' fist. "I told him that I'm grooming you to be a businessman, not a lush!"

"Better you than me," Severus interjected, amused by Malfoy's discomfort. He'd gone to school with Reg, he knew the kid wasn't exactly the all-study type.

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Lucius.

"Reg and I are good friends, but I don't think I'd relish trying to teach him. He looks up to you, you're the big brother he never had," Severus explained with a shrug.

"He _has_ a big brother," sulked Lucius. A wave of his wand and the glass was gone.

Severus let loose an exaggerated eyeroll. Must he explain everything? For Merlin's sake, this was Lucius, not Harry freaking Potter! "Yes, and that prat Sirius is the brother he _has_. You're the brother he _never_ had."

"Are you gonna be my brother?" Regulus chirped, eyes wide, smiling.

Lucius clenched his teeth. "If I am, you'd best prepare yourself for a smackdown next time I catch you drunk."

Regulus heaved his shoulder up toward his ears and let them drop. "'Kay." It wasn't as if Lucius had never smacked him before. "But it's my birthday…"

"I don't care," Lucius retorted. "You follow my rules if you want me to teach you."

Pouting, Reg stumbled away from the stairs headed to a cluster of young people comprised of Jacinta, Theo, Bayly, and Gloria. Draco and Astoria were nowhere in sight. He had a sudden hankering to show the group how he could turn firewhiskey to water with wandless magic.

Exhibiting a slight expression of concern that he quickly wiped from his face, Lucius groused, "I'm getting too old for this. When I was a very young man I took Regulus under my wing, I taught curses and ways to avoid punishment from the dark lord. Now it's twenty years later and he hasn't matured or changed."

"Being dead will do that," said Snape drolly.

"He drinks too much!" Malfoy exclaimed. "The kid's nineteen and he swills firewhiskey like a pro—hell, I remember him doing the same when he was sixteen! I don't know how to break him of it, yet he'll never be successful if he keeps on the way he's going."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you genuinely cared."

Lucius lifted his lip in a quintessentially Malfoy sneer. "Of course I care. His behaviour reflects on _me_." He tilted his head back to point with his chin as he drawled, "Oh look, Severus. Daphne Greengrass has brought her dog."

Lazily turning his head only far enough to get a glimpse, Severus grimaced like he'd swallowed a particularly sour lemon. Sirius Black was parading in with the young woman on his arm; both were impeccably clad in lavish dress robes that Severus was willing to bet the mutt hadn't picked out. "You had to invite him, didn't you?"

Lucius shrugged. "Narcissa sent out the invitations. He is—as you so eloquently pointed out—Regulus' brother."

"Technically, you pointed it out," Severus countered as another pained look crossed his already pinched features. Two people were marching in behind Sirius and Daphne. "Oh, my God, you invited Potter, too? Do you hate me that much, could you not have warned me?"

"Drama queen." Lucius beckoned to Kreacher, who popped beside them wearing a lime green pillowcase and a pointy paper party hat with a red tassel on top. Malfoy regarded the outfit in undisguised horror, then lifted a drink from his tray. "How very…festive, Kreacher."

"Yes, Master," agreed the elf, completely missing the sarcasm, smiling all over himself. "Master Malfoy is so kind to notice Kreacher's happy apparel." He thrust the tray at Severus, who merely shook his head. "Good Master Regulus deserves a happy day." He danced off to find more drink-starved humans.

Tenacity being his strong suit, Severus picked up the conversation where they'd left off. "I guess we can look at the bright side. If Draco marries Astoria and Dogboy marries Daphne, they'll be brothers-in-law. Black will be even more closely related to you." He smirked profusely at the renewed expression of dismay on his friend's face.

Across the room, Regulus had gone to meet his brother, tripping over the rug into his arms as Sirius caught him from a nasty fall. "Sirius! I'm glad you came, my dear brother."

"Soused, are you?" Sirius chuckled, plucking his own drink from the tray of Kreacher, who had magically appeared too late to save Reg from his spill.

"A little," Reg admitted, feeling the room spinning. It felt really, really good….and a tad creepy. "Guess what? Lucius is my brother, too!"

Sirius' eyes flew around the room until they landed with a heavy dose of contempt on Lucius. "Like f—king hell he is! Malfoy, what are you trying to pull?"

Yes, this was going to be a fun, fun party.


	3. Facets of Love

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 3 (Facets of Love)

**September 1, 1939**

Along with the rest of the students bound for Hogwarts, Tom had clamored aboard with his Housemates to secure a good compartment and settle in for the long train ride ahead. Unlike the vast majority (and as he'd done for the previous two years) he'd arrived at the King's Cross Station alone, courtesy of the Knight Bus. To his irritation and chagrin, he'd found his trunk too heavy and unwieldy to manage by himself across London. As always, there was no one to hug or kiss him, to wave him off, to miss him. He neither expected it nor cared. Here he was, thirteen years old and beginning his third year of instruction; nothing muggles said or thought or did mattered one iota to him, including their insipid concept of _love_.

Next to the window waving surreptitiously to his parents was Quenby Nott, a slim, round-shouldered fourth year, and beside him his neighbor and friend Lewis Mulciber, in Tom's class. Across from Nott sat Claudius Lestrange, a sturdy, dark eyed, dark haired boy wearing a bored, world-weary expression uncommon among twelve-year-olds, and next to the door where he could best observe people passing by sat Tom.

"Lookee there, I think I'm in love," Claudius purred, tapping on the window glass either to draw the attention of his comrades or of someone on the platform.

Nott scanned the area and focused on where the boy was pointing at a rail-thin, raven haired lass he'd never seen before. He instantly surmised she must be a firstie. "Pale little thing," he commented to no one in particular.

"We call that delicate, pink skin," Claudius retorted.

Mulciber stood up and leaned over across Nott to get a better look. "She's just some skinny bird. You shouldn't let your emotions show, my father says it's not the pureblood way."

"So does mine, I don't care. He's not here," Lestrange answered, his eyes following the girl until he lost sight of her when she made to board the train.

"So what, then? You gonna marry her and have a slew of brats?" laughed Mulciber, who nudged Nott in the side to make sure he appreciated his wit.

Claudius curled his lip in a sneer. "I only plan to have one kid—my _heir_. And no 'accidents' like that whining baby Varden."

"Varden _is_ a baby," Nott said dryly. "What's he, two? They whine."

"Who needs the aggravation?" Claudius responded. All at once he got up and bolted past Tom to exit the compartment.

Assuming the boy had a sudden urge to use the lavatory, Tom let him go without tripping him or hexing him for bumping his legs rather hard. He didn't relish the idea of a bodily 'accident' that he'd have to clean up or smell all the way to school. When Lestrange turned left instead of right, he affected a bemused curiosity. "Where's he going?"

"To talk to that girl, looks like," said Mulciber. His head stuck out of the door so far several people ran into him while he watched his companion muscle his way down the corridor, jostling other students aside until he reached the lass. When Lestrange cast a look backward, Mulciber jerked his head into the car and settled despondently into his seat. "I don't know why he bothers, he'll get an arranged marriage like the rest of us."

"Not me," Tom declared a bit too loudly. "I'm not getting married. Love is irrational."

"Maybe so, but I want an heir," said Nott softly. He felt no need to add that love often had little to do with arranged marriages. His own parents had been lucky, they'd learned to love each other and they cared for their son as much as any pureblood he knew. Maybe he'd be lucky, too.

"Here he comes!" hissed Mulciber, catching sight of Lestrange as he stormed down the aisle past their window, thrusting smaller children aside, only to throw himself back into his seat. "What'd she say?"

Lips pinched into a thin white line, eyes clouded with fury, Lestrange spat out, "Little tart told me to mind my manners and then she ducked into a compartment with a bunch of Gryffindorks! She'd better pray she doesn't get put in Slytherin! I'll make her life hell if she does."

Still vaguely baffled at Claudius' interest in some stupid chit, Tom scoffed, "Yet again proving you can't put any store in _love_." The contemptuous way he pronounced the word gave the impression it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "All that matters is what you can attain—_power_. If you have power, everything else you desire is yours."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**April 30, 2000**

_Sept. 1, 1939_

_ The Sorting Hat placed two promising souls into Slytherin today: Terrel Rosier and Antonin Dolohov. It was easy for me to corner them and lock eyes long enough to see what they're all about, as I've done with my companions in the past. I've not told anyone what I can do—the Legilimency, I mean. I've been studying books on the subject and honing my natural ability, but it would be foolish to let others know. Likewise, no one suspects I speak parseltongue except Professor Dumbledore, unless he blabbed to the staff. I don't think he did, they don't treat me like a freak. They like me, I'm a star pupil._

_ The girl that Claudius was drooling over on the train was placed in Gryffindor. Somehow that came as no shock, the arrogant bitch. What makes her think she's too good for Lestrange? Naturally__ I'm__ better than everyone else…what if she, too, possesses unusually strong magic? It would give her reason to be haughty. I'd best keep an eye on her, she might turn out to be a rival, and I can't have that. Nothing and no one will stand in my way or foil my plans._

Severus checked the date of the entry and frowned. Why had Tom inexplicably stopped writing in his first diary, then waited two full years to begin again? It was possible one book had been lost along the way, but if not there was quite a gap. It shouldn't matter to him, and it certainly shouldn't bother him, so why did it? He felt an odd sensation raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

So here was his first meeting with the father of the Lestrange brothers. Severus could see where Rodolphus—er, Wendolph—got his looks and personality. He snickered softly to himself. And Nott's father—Quenby? No wonder poor _Udo_ had got stuck with the name he had! Names notwithstanding, the elder Nott had been a decent man for the most part, he'd been a good father to Nott, Jr. Unlike Mulciber, the bastard. He'd treated his son Jack like shit all his life—the only good part of it was he'd not allowed the boy to become a Death Eater, and only because he was ashamed of him! Severus had yet to forget or forgive the time when he was a naïve sixteen-year-old new to Voldemort's ranks; Mulciber and a group of Death Eaters had _crucio_'d him senseless for not joining in their delight at torturing and murdering a family. If he were still alive, Severus might be tempted to pay him a visit just now.

It didn't occur to Snape until this moment: how in the world did he know all those names and what happened on the train? It wasn't even in the bloody book, and yet he saw it as clearly as his hand in front of his face. This wasn't the first time he'd seen things not in the diaries, knew things he could not know. What was going on? A voice in the back of his mind shrilled that this wasn't right; a louder, more brazen voice cut the first off and choked it into silence.

He focused his attention back to the entry. Who was this black haired Gryffindor that Tom planned to watch? Had she truly been powerful? And if so, had Tom done away with her? No, that couldn't be, there would have been stories of a missing girl. She'd in all likelihood turned out to be the typical snotty, cocky, self-absorbed type of mediocre whelp who invariably landed in Gryffindor.

Which of course brought to mind Snape's own gang of Gryffindork nemeses, most notably the wretched, swaggering Sirius Black. Last night's party had been chugging along just fine until he showed up! Regulus had innocently—and drunkenly—stated that Lucius was his brother. Any normal person would have interpreted it metaphorically. Not Black.

_"Like f—king hell he is! Malfoy, what are you trying to pull?" bellowed Sirius. With Regulus grasping his arm and pulling in an attempt to stop his brother, Sirius charged across the room dragging the stumbling youth behind him, followed closely by his godson._

_ "Sirius, forget it," Harry urged him. His maneuver to block Black's path was thwarted by a swift duck and dodge in which Sirius landed directly in front of the stone faced Malfoy._

_ Lucius stared down his nose at Black, permitting only a faint element of distaste to show through. He raised a blond eyebrow. "Have you a problem, Black? What am I saying, of course you do. Let me rephrase: What is it this time?"_

_ All commotion in the room had ceased. The group of young people turned to watch what proved to be quite a spectacle, gazing from the dark head to the light one and back again. Cuddled safely to Jacinta's chest, Ladon tried to raise himself up by pushing on her shoulders for a better view of his father and the loud man. The only noise came from the disco music on the muggle CD player that Regulus had magically modified to emit sound from all four corners of the living room. __ Night fever, night fever, we know how to show it, oooh__…. Every eye was riveted to the scene, including Kreacher's; he danced up and down in rhythm to the music in a delighted fit of anticipation to see evil Master Sirius receive his due._

_ "I've about had it with you, Malfoy," Sirius growled. "It's bad enough he's gone to you to teach him business affairs—"_

_ "Jealous, are we?" smirked Lucius. "Is it my fault you have no talent in these matters?"_

_ "Shut it!"_

_ "And you're going to make me __how__?" taunted Lucius, greatly amused. And here he'd thought this party would be dull!_

_ Sirius ignored him. "He's __my__ brother, Malfoy. Mine. You're not taking him away from me."_

_ "Oh, for Merlin's sake, must we listen to this tripe?" interrupted Severus. A gnawing sensation in his gut demanded he draw his wand; without a thought his fingers obeyed._

_ Surprisingly, Lucius held up a hand to Snape indicating he'd prefer to do this alone. A tiny smug smile graced his lips as he said, "I hardly need help with a deranged canine."_

_ "You gonna draw on me, __Loo-see-us__?" Sirius replied nastily, deliberately pronouncing his name the way cousin Bella used to do when she wanted to piss off the blond prat. "Come on, I dare you." He was so close now his hot breath misted in Lucius' face._

_ "Sirius, knock it off!" Regulus shouted, only no one paid him any mind._

_ The next instant Sirius howled and staggered back with a hand clamped over his left eye while Lucius stood chuckling at his own cleverness. Ever since they were at Hogwarts he'd wanted to severely hurt the bastard; a poke in the eye was a nice start. As he'd expected, Black went for his wand but, discombobulated by the pain and watery eyes, he fumbled with it for a second too long. In a heartbeat Lucius' wand was between his fingers, he stepped forward and rammed it up under Black's chin, yanking his head back as the wand dug painfully into the flesh._

_ "Ah, where to begin?" cooed Malfoy softly, his grey eyes taking on the glint of polished steel. "We have so much time to make up for."_

_ "Lucius, that's enough." It was a quiet, gentle statement that carried the weight of a command. Narcissa handed Khala to Aline and glided across the floor to her husband to place a light hand on his arm. "You've proven your point. We came here to celebrate Regulus' birthday, not to kill my other cousin."_

_ "Honestly, Narcissa, I'm not going to __kill__ him," Lucius answered, suppressing an eyeroll. Maybe make him __wish__ he was dead, but that was a whole other story. He chanced a sidelong glance at his wife and immediately wished he had not. He knew the resolute set of that lovely face. If he continued on course, there'd be dire consequences, not the least being a withdrawal of her affections for probably a substantial period of time. She was already miffed about the dragon incident. If he couldn't do any real damage to Black, what was the point of making Narcissa enraged? Quite simply put, the mutt wasn't worth it. With a disgruntled sigh he lowered his wand while shoving Sirius hard in the chest with his free hand. "You can thank your cousin you're still standing."_

_ "I'm not afraid—" was all Sirius had the chance to say before Daphne sidled up beside him and snatched the wand from his breast pocket a millisecond before he did. "Hey!"_

_ "If this is how you're going to behave when we go out in public, I'm not coming along anymore. Regulus can do as he pleases, he's a grown man. Mr. Malfoy can't take him away from you, and if you can't see that, you have grave issues that I'm not equipped to deal with." Daphne cocked her head and stared him down. "So which is it? Do you want me, or do you want to fight with him?"_

_ "Why can't I have both?" Sirius muttered, turning on the puppy dog charm, to no avail. The young lady remained unmoved._

_ Sirius had his emotional issues, he didn't deny that to himself. He realized he was being impetuous, even ridiculous sometimes—he just couldn't stop himself. Living with a mother and father who detested the sight of him had warped him in ways that unnerved him at times, but to openly admit it shamed him more than he could bear. _

_Recently he'd come to appreciate the fact that Reg was the only close family he truly had, and he was terrified of losing him. He'd lost him once, twenty years ago, and the guilt he felt over not being a supportive, decent brother had eaten away at him until the hellhole Azkaban had twisted things in his mind to make Reg out the bad guy. He finally had another chance to make things right, but not if he lost Regulus all over again! First his brother had moved to Spinner's End to get away from him; now he was calling Sirius' hated enemy 'brother'. It rankled….but mostly it just scared him._

_ What if Daphne was right, what if Reg couldn't be stolen away like that? Reg still loved him, he was sure of it. So the kid liked that ponce Malfoy, was that the end of the world? When all was said and done, the Malfoys had really come through for Regulus more than once. He ought to be glad of that, not resentful, no matter how much he despised Lucius._

_ Slowly he held out his hand to Daphne and she placed his wand in his palm. Evading the nosy, obvious stares of everyone in the place, Sirius stroked the back of his fingers along her cheek, brushing back some stray hairs. In a low voice he said, "I want you."_

And so Black had meandered off with Daphne, the situation diffused. Aline had appeared at Severus' side, prompting him to slide his own wand into its wrist holster. Aside from avoiding Black and Potter for the rest of the evening, it hadn't been so bad. He would have really enjoyed watching Lucius trounce the git, though.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The coast of Greece was nice this time of year—warm without being too hot, and not too many tourists yet with all the kids still in school. For these reasons Dolph had suggested this particular beach, one far from mainstream wizarding locales and not frequented by those loathsome muggles.

Perched on an outcropping of rock, Wendolph Goodman, a.k.a. Rodolphus Lestrange, relaxed back to watch the undulating blue waves working toward the shoreline and splashing onto the beach. He especially liked the way they crashed onto the twisted clumps of rock formations in the water with a raw, wild power that reminded him of the old days…the Death Eater days. Those had been good times.

Dolph mentally kicked himself. What the bloody hell was he thinking? He couldn't allow thoughts like that any more. Apart from the terror he'd inspired—which had been pretty freaking awesome no matter how much he tried to pretend it hadn't been—he'd tortured and killed people. More than a few, and not all of them had been muggles. He'd wasted away in Azkaban because of it for over fourteen years. He'd lost Bella because of it. He'd had to change his name and identity purely to survive. What part of that had been 'good times'?

As if that weren't enough, it had been because of him that Rabby became a Death Eater and ended up in Azkaban alongside him. He should have been setting an example for his little brother, not leading him into the pit of hell! Dolph gazed down onto the beach where Jorab Goodman, a.k.a. Rabastan Lestrange, lay on a towel beside his girlfriend Candice. Rabby was finally moving forward with his life, he finally _had_ a life…which gave Dolph a small twinge in his gut. It wasn't that he was jealous of Rab, it was just…he missed Bella. She'd been a bossy, unfaithful, crazed bitch, but he still missed her.

On the beach not far from Rabby, his orange cat Firebolt pounced repeatedly on clumps of seaweed, pawed viciously at sand fleas, and raced up and down the sand with the abandon and energy of the kitten she was. Every so often she'd nuzzle up to Rab for him to stroke her fur, then she was off again.

Lazily Dolph heaved himself up off the rocks, jumped down into the sand, and approached a leggy blond jogging to and fro at the water's edge with furtive glances now and again at the handsome, dark haired, bored-looking man impassively observing everything.

Getting right to the point, Dolph said, "Hi. Where are you from?"

"Hello," replied the woman, flashing a toothy smile. "I'm from London. I was hoping you were British, too."

"You got your wish," he said, stepping in closer and placing a friendly yet suggestive hand on her arm. She made no move to stop him. Her skin felt smooth and soft; it had been quite a long time since he'd touched a woman. "Would you like to go swimming with me?"

"I'd love to," she gushed back. She sent him a wink that intimated he might get more than a swim out of this. Together they waded into the surf.

From a position propped up on his elbows, Rab watched the interaction of his brother and the strange woman. Dolph had always been so confident in himself, so unafraid to go after what he wanted. As he'd done ever since he could remember, Rab mentally compared himself to his brother. Whereas Dolph was sturdily built like their father, Rabby was thin and wiry. Azkaban had only served to accentuate his bony frame, and while he'd filled out a lot since then, it nonetheless made him feel self-conscious to be half-naked on a public beach. He'd managed to achieve a light tan, which nevertheless left him pale beside Dolph. To top it off, Candice seemed to be ignoring him in favor of scoping out some buff wizard a short distance down the sand. He wished he'd never consented to come to this stupid place!

He scooped up Firebolt and got to his feet. "I'm going back to the bungalow. Are you coming?"

Candice turned her head slightly in his direction. The wind blew her black hair in swirls around her face. "I like it here. Are you sick or something?"

"If you mean sick of seeing you flirt with that poof over there, yeah, I am," Rab snapped back. He grabbed up his towel and flung it over his shoulder, then started to stalk away.

"You got sand on me!" Candice shrilled at him, shaking her head indignantly, brushing grains of sand off her face.

"Boo-hoo," he barked back, not breaking stride.

"Go ahead and be an arse! I don't need you!" she screamed.

Rab spun on his heel, literally quaking with suppressed rage. "You dare call me an arse, you two-faced bitch? Do you think this is the first time I've seen you flirt with another man? I won't play the fool for you or anybody else! We're done!"

"Fine!" she shrieked back, tossing her head again.

He could have walked away, he knew he should have walked away, but he didn't. An instant later his hand did what it had always done in a pinch—it reached for his wand. In a heartbeat he'd pulled the wand from a secure side pocket of his trunks, aimed at the man posturing for Candice while gawking unabashedly at the squabbling couple, and fired a yellow blast that sent the fellow to his knees howling.

"Have fun shagging him now," he growled nastily. He turned and stomped off with the familiar sound of screaming behind him.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Rabby, what the hell was that all about?" Dolph tossed his beach towel onto the back of a wooden chair and glared at his brother, who lay motionless on the bungalow sofa staring up at the ceiling, Firebolt curled protectively on his chest.

His brother shrugged lifelessly. "I broke up with Candice. I figure if she wants some other bloke, she can have him."

"You hexed his balls off," Dolph reminded him sharply, though the humor of it caused a wicked grin to tug at the corner of his mouth.

"That'll make it a tad more complicated, won't it?" Rabby retorted.

"Not really. I reversed the curse."

At that his brother sat bolt upright looking rather agitated. Not amused at being displaced, Firebolt made a swipe at his chest before curling beside him to groom herself. "What'd you do that for? He could've gone to the hospital to have it done!"

Dolph pulled back the chair and sat down heavily. "I did it for _you_. If he'd gone to a healer, they'd know it was Dark Arts and they'd send aurors looking for you. We can't go around doing stuff like that anymore—not in public, anyway."

"I don't care," Jorab replied without conviction. It had been a rash and unwise thing to do, despite his anger he realized that. If he absolutely had to curse someone, it was imperative he do so away from the prying eyes of potential witnesses. "He oughtta be glad I didn't _a.k_. him."

"Would you?" Dolph asked, leaning forward with a strange mixture of curiosity and revulsion. "I thought you swore never to use the killing curse again."

"I wouldn't, alright! I'm not an idiot! I'm sorry if I ruined it for you and that blond bimbo, I'm just pissed. I'm not allowed to be mad?" exclaimed the other, flinging himself backward once more onto the couch to sulk.

Dolph's grin spread wide on his face. "Actually, the blond bimbo is waiting outside. I was gonna go to her place for a while. I have one question for you: if you think Candice is cheating on you, why did you hex the bloke instead of her?"

Not waiting for an answer which he wasn't entirely sure his brother could provide, he got up and gave a brief wave, then disappeared out the door.


	4. Untitled

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 4 ( )

**October 31, 1939**

The annual Halloween Ball was set to begin and, as was to be expected, Tom didn't care. The only reason he'd deigned to agree to go was to get the nagging girls off his back. For crying out loud, he knew he was good-looking, but surely there were plenty of other boys to dance with! He hated dancing, it was a pointless waste of time like most everything else at this insipid school. Unless he'd been grossly misinformed, he was here to _learn_ _magic_.

Tom grimaced as he shook his head. Being charming, being a model student, making people like him was a full-time job in itself, particularly when he had to watch everything he said and did when a teacher was around. If he hadn't stumbled across this portrait of Salazar Slytherin in an obscure passage of the labyrinth dungeons last year, he'd have no one at all to be himself with. It had been so freeing to be able to say whatever he liked without fear of repercussion.

_"Everyone's going to that ridiculous dance,"_ Tom hissed in parseltongue.

An ancient and monkey-like face, gaunt, with long grey beard and pale grey eyes stared back at him. He wore a heavy gold locket with an ornate 'S' inscribed upon it. _"And you don't wish to go?"_

_"No, it's boring and stupid,"_ sighed Tom, leaning against the opposite wall in the most relaxed pose he'd assumed in ages. _"Only I have to go, they're expecting me."_

_ "You must fit in; you mustn't do anything to stir up suspicions or even curiosity concerning your affairs,"_ warned Slytherin in a sage, hissing voice. _"In a few years when you're old enough and strong enough—"_

"There you are, Tom!" came a voice echoing down the frigid corridor.

Tom halted in place, his mind whirling. Slowly he turned his head to see the gang of boys he surrounded himself with. Nott was the one who had spoken. Had they heard him talking in parseltongue? What should he do? "Yes, here I am."

By now the youths had gathered round the portrait and were looking in bemusement from Riddle to the ancient Founder. At last Mulciber uttered in a conspiratorial rasp, "Were you talking to him? We heard…something."

"He's a parselmouth!" Lestrange exclaimed in awe. "Like Slytherin!"

"No way!" scoffed Dolohov.

"Silence!" barked Slytherin from his portrait, cowing the youths instantly. They barely dared to dart glances at him. "Are you all proud purebloods?"

Hastily the lot of them agreed in an unintelligible jumble of nodding and mumbling that they were indeed proud purebloods.

"And do you desire pureblood rule of the wizarding world, as it should be? Do you wish to be rid of the stench of mudbloods? Are you willing to do whatever it takes to make this happen?" demanded Slytherin. His keen gaze bore into each of them as they assented to this as well. "Then listen well and keep your mouths shut about what you hear. Tom Riddle is my heir—the Heir of Slytherin."

If the lads' eyes widened any more there was a danger of them popping from their sockets. Their jaws hung open in dismay, yet it was evident they were highly impressed. Questions burned on the tips of their tongues, no one brave enough to be the first to ask. While they as yet had no notion that being the Heir of Slytherin carried with it anything more than prestige, they tacitly understood this to be a momentous revelation.

Salazar met Tom's eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. Drawing a deep breath, Tom pushed off from the wall to stand in the midst of them. "The first year I arrived at Hogwarts, I researched the names of my family. Marvolo Gaunt is my grandfather and one of the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin. This is why I speak parseltongue. When I came upon this portrait, our Founder Slytherin entrusted me with something of great importance. I've learned much about myself and our future."

"_Our_ future?" repeated Nott in a bare whisper.

_"Shall I tell them?"_ Tom inquired of the portrait.

The old man in the picture contemplated for a moment, then nodded as he added an admonition, _"Never tell your followers more than they need to know."_

Tom bobbed his head once in acknowledgement. His glance ran around the circle of faces. "My friends, we have been chosen to cleanse our world. I will lead us to pureblood rule. For now, I have a task for you."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The second floor girls' bathroom was empty, as the students were either in their dormitories or at the Ball. Riddle, Nott, Mulciber, Lestrange, Dolohov, and Rosier padded down the corridor and halted at the entrance, all of them flushed with excitement and the intrigue of secrecy that bonded them together.

Mulciber opened the door and went in to look under the stall doors, making absolutely sure no one was present. He returned grinning broadly. "Nope. Nobody's in here."

"All of you fan out," Tom instructed, waving a hand imperiously to indicate farther down the hall. "Nott, Lestrange—you stand guard at the door. Allow _no one_ to enter. Mulciber, take the right corner. Dolohov, Rosier—go down there to the left and keep an eye peeled."

"Can we…" Dolohov implored meekly. "Can we watch you open the Chamber?"

Tom's initial response was to blast the firstie for insolence. Had he not been given an order? Wand in hand, he assessed the situation rapidly. In a single declaration of his heritage, he'd become the group's de facto leader. It would behoove him to garner further loyalty through shared experience, by allowing them to be a part of something of such great significance. But he would not tolerate disobedience.

His wand shot out a flash that struck Dolohov in the chest; the boy fell back crying out and holding his hand to his ribcage. "That's only a stinging hex. Next time you'll do what I say, won't you?" Lifting his chin, Tom pronounced to the gang, "Because this is important to all of us, I'll let you watch—but then you go stand guard while I'm inside."

He didn't intend to be long in the Chamber, not this time anyway. He only wanted to check it out, get a feel for it. Salazar had instructed him not to summon the basilisk yet, it wasn't time, and Tom trusted the Founder knew what he was talking about. He wasn't trying to hold Tom back or thwart him, only to make sure he was primed for what was to come. When the time came, he had to be equipped both mentally and magically in order to control the giant snake. He was no fool, he could wait…besides, he'd been warned that unless he was sufficiently prepared, the basilisk could kill him the same as anyone else. Yes, he'd wait. Death was something he planned to put off for as long as possible—forever, if he could find a way.

With a final glimpse around they dashed into the bathroom, all but Tom huddled next to the door. Tom casually walked around the circle of sinks scrutinizing the taps, intent on finding the snaked etched on top. There it was! He stopped, exhilaration coursing through his veins, though he'd not let the boys see it.

He cast a look at the waiting youths, a look conveying smug superiority. Not only was he their better, he was going to prove it right here in front of them! In parseltongue he said, "_Open the Chamber."_

Just as Slytherin had described to him, the sink slid out to reveal a dark tunnel. To the amazed boys gawping at him he commanded harshly, "Go stand guard!"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**May 6, 2000**

_Nov. 1, 1939_

_ I've seen it, I've seen the Chamber of Secrets! Alright, so it's dirty and slimy and littered with small carcasses—but it's mine! Isn't it a tad pathetic that the only thing I can lay claim to is a squalid pit? I, the Heir of Slytherin! At first I wasn't sure I ought to go in, I'm not prepared for the basilisk. Salazar assured me it would be sleeping, and it was. I didn't call it or even try to look upon it. By the time I set it loose on the filthy mudbloods, I'll have visited the Chamber many times, I'll be intimately familiar with it. I can hardly wait._

_ I had to hex Dolohov, though I admit it didn't bother me in the least. I enjoyed it, in fact. If I'm to be leader—which is my natural function—I can't let them question me. The looks on their faces when they heard I'm the Heir of Slytherin—what can I say? It was magnificent! That was all it took to make them follow me like trained puppies. I like to think of them as the first in a long line of lieutenants to come._

_ I was in such high spirits after viewing my Chamber that I even went to that silly Halloween Ball. The girls swarmed about me like bees to a hive, and I gallantly danced with each one. I even noticed some of the older girls eyeing me; I'll need to tread carefully to avoid arousing the ire of the 6__th__ and 7__th__ year boys. My magical talents surpass those of a fifth year, but I'm still only a crappy third year, and those boys are larger and know more magic than I do. The evening wasn't a total waste of time, I showed myself to the professors to be debonair as well as charming. It's almost sickening how much they like me._

_ Claudius still can't let go his infatuation with that Gryffindork girl—Minerva, I believe he called her. What is it about her he finds so enthralling? I've not heard anything to indicate she's an exceptional witch. He tried to drag her onto the dance floor when she refused his offer, and a couple of bigger blokes from her House knocked him on his arse. Serves him right, I suppose, I honestly don't care. Nevertheless, an affront to one Slytherin is an affront to all Slytherins, and before you could say 'Bob's your uncle' there was an all-out brawl in session, blessedly ending the dance. No need to ponder which House lost points over it, is there?_

When Severus at last came to his senses, he was standing in front of the sink in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, his fingers stroking the tap embossed with a serpent. Gasping aloud, he thrust against it as though he could push the sink away. Fear gripping his insides, he took three slow paces backward. This was bad, this was very, very bad. He'd been reading about the Chamber, he'd seen the visions that went along with each entry…and now he was here, and for the life of him he had no idea how he'd got here.

He swallowed hard, chiding himself to buck up. There was a logical explanation…. somewhere. He'd probably come to check on Myrtle or flooding or…something. When one got so used to walking the castle, it was only natural they'd cease to notice details like passing by armour, or climbing stairs. Alright, a complete blackout was possibly not normal, but maybe if he read more in the diary it would explain what was happening. The authoritative yet soothing voice in his head reassured him everything was well and would be made clear. The voice always made him feel at ease.

Wrenching open the door, he stepped out into the corridor and took a deep breath. And then his heart skipped a beat. No, it couldn't be, Fate would not be that cruel! He hadn't time to duck back into the bathroom before he'd been spotted.

"Professor!" Harry waved cheerfully at the hapless Headmaster, who groaned inwardly. Not only was he being assailed by his quasi-nemesis, the Brat-Who-Refused-To-Die wasn't alone, he'd brought his dimwitted sidekick with him! Both of them came galloping down the hall brandishing broomsticks.

"Hey, Professor," Ron grunted, tilting his chin up in greeting.

Severus growled a curt, "Weasley."

"Professor, look at this," Harry insisted on tormenting the man, shoving his broom at the instructor. "It's a Wind Cleaver like the one Viktor Krum has."

"How very nice for you," Snape replied—very cordially, if he must say so. He was getting quite good at being civil to the little pain in the—

"If you want, you can borrow it sometime," said Harry. He didn't look entirely sincere at this, probably remembering what Sirius had said about Snape not being good at flying.

Before Severus could roundly reject the offer, Ron gleefully informed him, "There are only twenty like it in the entire wizarding world."

Snape had already begun to tune them out. He hated brooms almost as much as he hated Quidditch—no, wait, that wasn't right. He didn't hate Quidditch, although the students did spend an inordinate amount of time discussing it, playing it, and thinking about it when their time would be better spent improving their pitifully miniscule, talentless minds. Nor did he hate flying, it was actually rather fun and he wasn't half bad at it…what was his point again?

"The Ministry presented it to me for defeating Voldemort," Harry was saying. "Remember at Regulus' party I gave him one. Not to brag, but I have some influence so I was able to buy one."

_Far be it from a __Potter__ to brag,_ Severus thought, rolling his eyes so far into his skull it made him a little dizzy. "Is there any particular reason you're here, Mr. Potter? I have things to attend to."

"We're looking for Bayly. Sirius, Reg, Ginny, Gloria, and Draco are out on the Quidditch pitch—he said we could use it," Harry added hastily. "Any idea where he might be?"

Snape was still dumbfounded by Harry's assertion that _Draco_ was with this group…since when did Draco hang around with Potter? Yes, he was friends with Regulus and Bayly, but Potter, Weasley, and the mutt? Blinking back his dismay, he said simply, "I don't know, Potter." And Bayly had invited all these people to use the Quidditch pitch without even asking the Headmaster? If someone got hurt—and Merlin knows scarcely a game goes by when someone isn't hurt—the blame would fall directly on Snape. "When you find Mr. Young, tell him I'd like a word with him."

"Do you think he might be in the Potions lab?" Harry persisted.

Severus crossed his arms and cast a go-thither glare (being, of course, the opposite of a come-hither look). "Which part of 'I don't know, Potter' befuddles you?"

Ron chimed in with, "We're closer to the library, let's check there."

The two scooted off shouting goodbyes and leaving Severus to muse aloud to himself, "Weasley knows where the library is? Astounding."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The door to the library swung open and Bayly Young entered quietly. Gaggles of pupils sat huddled over mounds of books, primarily fifth years studying for O.W.L.s and seventh years preparing for N.E.W.T.s. He needn't have bothered with silence, the whole place hummed with discussions and idle chatter. Evidently the librarian had stepped out. He glanced widely round the room, then approached the table nearest him.

"Loughlin, have you seen Jamie Cunningham?"

The youth he'd addressed shot him a half-lidded, sullen look. "Who's that?"

"A Ravenclaw fourth year," Bayly exclaimed in exasperation. "Don't you even know the people in your House?"

Loughlin shrugged one shoulder and turned his eyes back to his book. "I have better things to do with my time than socialise with the babies. I've got N.E.W.T.s coming up, you know. Not all of us get handed a job upon graduation, we have to work for it."

Bayly resisted a strong temptation to punch the kid in the head. As a professor (he'd been teaching 2nd, 3rd, and 4th years all term) it wouldn't go over well. Last year when Bayly had been a 7th year, he'd dueled with the boy and badly hurt him with the _infligo_ _damnum_ his father had taught him. Since that time Loughlin had, perhaps understandably, not been a big fan of Young, and no doubt resented the fact that Snape had become his mentor and subsequently given him a position as instructor. Certainly Loughlin failed to concede that Bayly was gifted in Potions, else Snape would not have awarded him a passing glance.

Swearing under his breath in Bulgarian and clenching his fist to keep from swatting the insolent jerk, Bayly walked off in search of his student, leaving Loughlin to spout off to his companion, a Hufflepuff named Ezekiah Adams. "I don't know why they let that punk Young be a teacher here. He almost killed me last year!" Never mind that Loughlin himself had _provoked_ the incident.

Ezekiah shook his head in commiseration. "Come on, look at _Snape_. He was a Death Eater, and now he's Headmaster. You've gotta wonder."

A dark haired girl at the table behind them, whose back was to the boys, turned with an indignant pout and poked Adams in the back with her quill. "That's a very simplistic interpretation of events. Snape was a _spy_. If you—"

"Shut it, Romilda. Mind your own business," Ezekiah snapped, spinning to confront her. "Can you believe this, Loughlin? A Gryffindor sticking up for a Slytherin!"

Dennis Creevey, a sixth year sitting beside Romilda, twisted around as well. "Make that _two_ Gryffindors. If it wasn't for Headmaster Snape, Harry Potter would probably be dead long ago and so would a lot of us!"

"I wasn't even talking about Snape!" Loughlin snarled.

"But Adams here brought him up," Romilda retorted. "You don't like Professor Young because he hurt you, but from what I heard it was two against one and you blokes started it. He was new to the school, how was he supposed to know things are run differently here than at Durmstrang?"

"Fancy him, do you?" Adams taunted, laughing. "He's married, Romilda-wilda!"

Romilda's face flushed bright red, down to the roots of her hair. "He's a good teacher and a nice person. If Snape trusts him, so do I."

Loughlin sneered, a pitiful imitation of what he'd seen Slytherins do for seven years. "I'm not so sure I trust Snape. And unlike you, Romilda, I'm not smitten with the bastard son of a Death Eater. I'll just be glad to graduate and be done with him."

"You have something to do with him now?" asked Dennis, feigning incredulity. "He teaches the lower levels; did you get demoted?"

The scarlet tinge creeping into his cheeks rivaled that of the girl's blush. "Sod off, Creevey. I'm going back to Ravenclaw Tower where I can study without the incessant yapping of Gryffindor pups."

He whirled back to his own table to gather up his books and found himself staring at Harry and Ron, who stood not two meters away observing the four facing each other and squabbling. Loughlin's eyes grew round with shock and his mouth dropped open as he stammered for something to say.

"Yap, yap," said Ron.

For a long moment Harry said nothing. He'd been in those very shoes of hate and mistrust directed at Snape for his entire stint at school. It pained him to see others following that path despite all the evidence to support Snape's true allegiance. He also empathized with Bayly's position—a newcomer to a strange school, an outsider bearing the terrible secret of his abusive father being an escaped Death Eater intent on killing Snape. If both of them could overcome so many obstacles in their lives, they deserved recognition for it, not loathing.

To Loughlin and Adams Harry finally said, "You should be ashamed of yourselves. Professors Snape and Young are dedicated professionals, they deserve your respect. After all that's happened, we need to leave the past in the past and move on."

"Harry, Bayly's over there," interjected Ron, pointing to the instructor talking to another student. Harry nodded curtly to the gang at the tables and strode off, at which time Ron addressed the young lady. "Hi, I'm Ron Weasley. You look familiar."

"I'm Romilda Vane," she replied, grinning idiotically and feeling like a moron for doing so. "I know who you are."

"Ah, yes," he nodded, grinning back. She'd grown up right nice, hadn't she? She didn't need a love potion this time around if she wanted to capture his heart, he smirked inwardly. "Would you like to maybe meet me this weekend in Hogsmeade?"  
XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Fifteen-month-old Ladon awoke gradually; the room was quiet save for the breathing of Narcissa and his four-month-old sister Khala on the big bed. With the curtains drawn, the room was still dim though the sun had long since been up. The boy stretched like a tiger cub, smacked his lips, and opened his eyes. Just as he'd suspected, the big people had put him in this wee prison again! In a fit of pique he kicked off his blanket.

Ladon rolled over onto his stomach, got to his knees, and gripped the bars of his crib to shake them futilely. It was no use, they remained secure as ever. What had he done to deserve this? He tried to be a smart big boy like Fa'er wanted, he played nice with Day-co…most of the time, he gave Mama loads of hugs and kisses. So why, when that miniature interloper made her appearance, had they banished him to the prison?

He pinched his little lips tight. No, he would not cry—it always made the dollish big-headed one wail like a flock of geese. Then Mama or Fa'er would pick _her_ up, as if _she_ were the one needing comfort. If he'd understood the concept of hate, he'd have thought he most definitely hated her. Ladon sent a scathing glare in her direction—at least he did his best to imitate Unco Sev'us.

Sighing, he stood up and gripped the railing on top to give it another ferocious shake. On impulse he lurched upward, pulling hard enough to propel him partway over the bars. Elated and frightened at once, Ladon grabbed wildly at the bars, clasping with one hand on the opposite side and heaving himself up till he flopped on his stomach across the rail. A final push of his feet on the bars sent him sailing headfirst over the top, to land on Lucius' side of the bed smack on his skull. His body flipped over and thudded down on the mattress.

For a moment he lay stunned, then his face screwed up and his breathing became ragged. He'd let out only a single sniffle before coming to a brilliant realization: he was free! He'd escaped! Buoyed by his success, he forgot his fear and sat up looking about the room. It seemed different yet familiar from this perspective.

When he looked at Mama and Khal', the woman's eyes were closed but the infant's were not. Round grey eyes stared back at him with a delighted wonder and her limbs thrashed while her hand reached out in his direction. Scuttling over on all fours, he knelt beside the baby to observe her without the big people warning him to be careful and hovering as if he might hurt their little darling. He poked cautiously at her nose and cheeks, eliciting light squeals from the tot.

His small hand stroked her downy white head. The soft hair reminded him of Day-co and Fa'er—and himself. He'd seen his reflection in the shiny wall of the bathroom, he knew his hair to be like theirs. Without thinking he found himself pulling gently on his own blond locks and patting his head as he caressed Khala's. The girl gurgled at him and gave a toothless smile; he smiled back.

"Wan' play?" he whispered.

Khala's flailing arm swatted him on the leg and she laughed, right before groping his nose in her tiny fist. Ladon jerked his head back out of her reach, though he thought it rather amusing. Maybe Khal' wasn't such a boring lump after all, maybe she just needed someone to teach her to play. He could do that, he had loads and loads of toys in his room—oh, there was a stuffed dragon in the prison! If he could reach it through the bars…

Ladon crawled to the edge of the bed where it met the crib. He was in luck, the dark green plushy was wedged up against the bars! His hand easily snaked between the slats, latched onto the toy's long neck, and yanked its head through. A hard tug lodged the plump body between two slats. Pulling with both hands, he managed to wrench the animal free, sending him on his rear. Triumphantly he crawled over to his sister and presented the dragon to her by laying it on her chest. Khala dragged it close and shoved its ear in her mouth with a loud sucking sound.

"Ladon, sweetie, how did you get out of your crib?" Narcissa gazed at her son through half-open eyes and extended a hand to him.

He eagerly jumped into her arms with an exclamation of, "Mama!"

Narcissa sat up; Ladon promptly plopped onto her lap and snuggled in close. "Did you give Khala your dragon to play with? What a lovely thing to do, my generous little boy."

_Big boy_, Ladon corrected her mentally. He didn't even mind when Mama reached over to pet the squirming Khal'. She was kind of cute, he guessed, and would make an excellent toy…it was almost like having another person to play with.


	5. Human Relations

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 5 (Human Relations)

**November 11, 1939**

Seated in the farthest row to the back of the Transfiguration classroom, Tom leisurely stretched out his legs and leaned back to regard his classmates with a penetrating gaze that would have made them uncomfortable had they been aware of his scrutiny. He found it amusing how inept these witches and wizards were in comparison to himself, who'd had neither magical guidance nor example for the first eleven years of his life, and yet he'd managed to excel brilliantly.

A girl in the front row swung her wand at the pygmy puff on her desk that she was supposed to transform into a flaming torch. She'd got as far as the torch—one of the few in the room who had—though Tom strongly suspected her aversion to harming the little creature was hampering her efforts to produce fire. Didn't she comprehend that she wouldn't be hurting the stupid puff? And even if she were, there were things more important!

Unhindered by worry over burning his pygmy puff to a crisp, Mulciber sat beside Riddle chanting the spell over and over, to no avail. His face had turned a dark shade of red in furious concentration tinged with frustration. The puff merely peeked up at him as if to mock his endeavor.

Out of nowhere Dumbledore appeared beside Tom, making the boy start. He bit into his lip to keep himself from hurling a nasty remark at the auburn-haired professor. "Tom, have you given up? That's not like you."

Riddle plastered on a crooked smile before turning to face the man. "No, sir. I never give up until I get what I'm after." To prove his point he picked up the puff in one hand, flicked his wand with a whispered incantation, and suddenly held a fiercely flaming torch that he waved dangerously close to Dumbledore. It was all he could do not to smirk in the older wizard's face as Dumbledore stepped back one pace without a word.

"Well done, Tom," Dumbledore said benignly. He nodded toward Riddle's comrade, still violently shaking his wand and uttering near-obscenities at the puff. "Perhaps you might help Mr. Mulciber with his technique. The words are correct if you subtract the inappropriate language, his 'flick' is not." He sauntered off without waiting for an affirmation from Tom, though he did aim his own wand and return Tom's puff to its original form.

Seething inwardly at the insinuation that he was somehow responsible for his companion's magical abilities, Riddle nudged Mulciber in the ribs and hissed quietly, "Do it right, you fool! Twirl your wrist slightly to the right as you say it."

Mulciber tried to obey, only to fail again. By way of subtle motivation, Riddle ground the heel of his foot hard on top of Mulciber's until the boy clenched his teeth and let out a low whine. Tom demonstrated once more, slowly, then sat back and watched the other lad imitate him. To Mulciber's obvious astonishment, it worked: a fiery torch took the place of the gentle creature.

"_Wicked_!" he murmured, nodding enthusiastically. Under his breath, leaning close to Tom, he whispered, "Thanks, Lord Voldemort."

When class had ended, the boys brought their pygmy puffs up to place them on the teacher's desk and trailed out after everyone else. Standing at the door looking overly eager to come in was the skinny black-haired girl Tom had been keeping an eye on. Involuntarily his eyebrows rose; he halted outside the door barely out of sight of the professor.

"Minerva, my star pupil!" crowed Dumbledore as the girl entered.

A rush of bile rose in Tom's throat as anger laced with jealousy coursed through him. _Star pupil?_ What in Merlin's name was that firstie brat capable of that made her Dumbledore's pet? Had the old man not just witnessed his technique and practically ordered him to teach it to another? For over two years he'd seen Tom outperforming his classmates on a regular basis and never once had he so much as intimated that Tom was special! He had to know, he couldn't bear the wondering any longer.

From other classes nearby, Rosier and Dolohov, Lestrange, and Nott had gravitated to him as they always did now, falling in behind him without so much as a word. Sensing his foul mood, it was just as well they didn't attempt any conversation. As a group they headed toward the Great Hall for lunch.

"There are my boys!" chuckled a voice from an adjacent corridor. Horace Slughorn, Slytherin Head of House, strode out and began to walk with his snakes. One pudgy hand stroked his gingery blond mustache, then rose to rake his fingers through his thick, straw-like hair. "Awfully quiet today, lads, aren't you?"

As if afraid to speak without permission, all eyes turned warily to Tom, who swallowed the snarl lapping at his lips. In a tone far more complacent than he felt, he asked, "Professor, what do you know about that firstie Gryffindor, Minerva McGonagall?"

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**May 20, 2000**

_Nov. 11, 1939_

_ I knew it, that McGonagall girl has Professor Dumbledore wrapped around her finger! Apparently—according to Professor Slughorn—the chit is exceptional at Transfigurations. Big ass deal! So am I! She isn't so gifted at Potions, I'm given to understand. As for the rest of her talents, I'm skeptical but I'll need to be vigilant. If it weren't for the fact that most of the teachers are partial to me—for good reason—I'd be outraged at the blatant favouritism in this school._

The incensed tone of Tom's entry cut to the bone, and Severus felt the very same emotions roiling along his own veins. A surge of indignation at Minerva rose in his chest as he looked up at the portrait of Dumbledore with an odd glint of mistrust in his eyes.

"Severus, I do wish you'd stop reading those books," the old Headmaster said. "I fear they cannot be good for you."

Snape blinked a few times, then responded, "Why the sudden concern, Albus?"

"I have always been concerned for you, my boy."

"Really?" Severus let out a snort of derision, and his lip curled into his trademark sneer. "Is that what you call allowing the Marauders to torment me for seven years? When their cruelty eventually drove me to the protection of Death Eaters aspirants, I found no sympathy from you, not even when Sirius Black nearly got me killed by the werewolf. In fact, as I recollect you refused to even defend Lily or the Potters without first extracting payment from me. What was that you said?" Severus gazed upward, his index finger resting on his lips. "Oh, yes, I remember—and I quote: 'You disgust me'."

Looking stricken, Dumbledore stared openly at the other man. That had all happened so very long ago, he'd misunderstood Snape's motives at the time and treated him more harshly than was necessary. He thought they'd finally gotten past this! "You were a Death Eater, Severus. It was nothing personal."

"Everything is personal," snapped the other wizard.

_Alright, have it your way_, Albus huffed to himself. "Can you deny that at times you liked being a Death Eater?"

Severus opened his desk drawer, slipped the diary inside, shut it again, and locked it with a silent complicated spell. "I've said it before, but evidently it bears repeating: at least the Death Eaters treated me like a human being. They respected my talents and they accepted me."

"And I didn't treat you like a human being?" asked Albus incredulously.

Getting to his feet, Severus came round to face Dumbledore, his chest burning with suppressed ire, his face so blank his eyes were like dead black shells in a calm sea of white. "You sent me into Voldemort's lair, risking my life innumerable times. You made sure I never forgot what I'd done to contribute to Lily's death. I spent a lifetime trying to atone for that, yet I never came to the point where I could honestly say I didn't still disgust you for what I'd been. Albus, you _forced_ me to be the thing you despised the most. You be the judge."

With that he stalked from the room and down the staircase.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Aline Conn Snape yanked open the top drawer of her desk at the front of the Potions lab. She removed a short stack of parchments laying on top, began to close the drawer, and paused. Lifting the 'Lilac' ink bottle with obvious irritation, she slammed it down into its correct alphabetical position between the Lavender and the Magenta. Honestly, if Severus was going to borrow her things, the least he could do was replace them in their proper locations! And what on Earth was he doing with lilac ink anyway? Had he run out of _crimson_ and _scarlet_? Fuming to herself, she aligned the bottle just so, making sure to face all the labels in the same direction—directly forward—and shut the drawer with a snap.

The heads of most of her 7th year students rose at the sound. Professor Snape, a.k.a. Mistress Snape to avoid confusion, had not been in a good mood all period. Unaccustomed to such behaviour from _this_ Snape, they took it as a very bad sign. It didn't help that not one of them had been able to produce even a reasonable facsimile of today's potion lesson.

Aline marched down the aisle between the rows of lab tables, tossing papers one by one to their authors while slinging disapproving looks randomly at the entire class. At last she resumed her pacing at the front of the room. "These essays on poison antidotes were _abysmal_. If I must say so, I was overly generous in your grades. Those who scored lower than Outstanding—oh, wait. No one scored Outstanding, that would have actually entailed _trying_. Those who scored less than Exceeds Expectations will be rewriting their essays this weekend. That would be _all_ of you."

"_Acceptable_?" gasped a Ravenclaw girl who clutched her parchment in a death grip. Never had she earned such a wretched score in her entire career at Hogwarts. Her face had gone so pale she looked primed to faint at any moment.

The Gryffindor beside her peeked at the offensive paper, then piped up, "Acceptable is passing. Isn't that good enough?"

Mistress Snape rounded on them with a murderous look and shrilled, "Good enough? As I recall, Miss Abercrombie, you received a Dreadful. If your mother were dying and you had to brew that antidote using any one of these essays as a guide, I guarantee you that it wouldn't be _good enough_! In this class we strive for perfection, we do not wallow in mediocrity!" She almost let slip a tiny, involuntary smile at realizing she'd stolen that last line from the Malfoy family list of rules. She stomped to her desk.

"I thought we were done with snarky Potions professors," grumbled Abercrombie under her breath.

A Hufflepuff behind her, eyeing his own Troll level paper, ruefully moaned, "Looks like she's turned into a Snape after all."

"I take that as a compliment," Aline retorted, secretly pleased to see the horror in their faces to know they'd been overheard. How quickly they forgot her extraordinarily keen sense of hearing. "My husband did not accept shoddy work, nor do I. You are dismissed; collect your pitiful excuses for essays before you go."

When the Gryffindor opened her mouth again, the Ravenclaw girl clapped a hand over it while rushing her out as she chided, "Shut up! She's all hormonal, she'll tell Snape on us and he'll crush us like bugs!"

"It might be better than re-doing a five page essay," Abercrombie replied sulkily when they were out in the hallway.

Two Slytherin boys who'd exited directly behind them cast hateful glances their way. Mistress Snape was their Head of House, and therefore expected more from them. She was also likely to verbally lambaste them for their deplorable grades (in this case a Poor and an Acceptable). If the snide-ass comments of these losers pissed her off, there was no telling who might pay, or how. Unlike other professors, Mistress Snape did not make a habit of docking points from Houses, nor had she to date physically castigated a student although it was permissible since last year. All her snakes lived in covert fear that one day the gentle witch might snap and begin to institute some of the horrific punishments she'd described to them as commonplace in Salem. Today looked like it might be that day.

One of the Slytherins hissed in the Gryffindor's ear, "If we get in trouble for you jerks, heads are gonna roll." Had she been a boy, he'd have socked her on general principles.

"Oh, I'm scared, Frank," Abercrombie shot back, though she notably took hold of her wand.

"Come on, Kroos," the other Slytherin interjected, gesturing with a tip of his head toward the dungeons. "Let's get this done or we won't be going to Hogsmeade this weekend."

The discussion came to a decided end when Bayly walked around the corner. The group of them nodded in greeting and hurried off, leaving him to wonder. He didn't normally cause students to run off at the sight of him. Seeing Aline perched on the edge of her desk, looking downhearted, he asked, "Civil unrest in the classroom?"

"Nothing I can't handle," answered Aline, forcing a smile. "How are your classes going?"

Bayly smiled wryly as he headed to the supply cabinet and began rummaging through. "Stellar, unless you count the 2nd year pustule incident and the near explosion due to 4th year rivalries. I just don't get it—why do Slytherin and Gryffindor hate each other so much? They're all part of the same school."

Aline shrugged and sighed heavily. "I don't know. Apparently the Founders didn't get along and they passed on their animosity. We had no such rivalries in Salem."

"Nor at Durmstrang," responded Bayly. Not that they would have been tolerated at Durmstrang had anyone got it in their heads to try it. He withdrew a handful of dried newts from the bin. "You won't be needing these, will you?"

"No, take whatever you need." She got up to begin straightening the already nearly spotless lab when she spied her husband. Breaking into an earnest beam she exclaimed, "Severus!"

"My love," he replied smoothly, not in the least abashed at having his affections witnessed by Bayly. After all they'd been through the previous year with Dolohov, the curse, and their weddings, the bond between the young man and himself had grown far beyond that of teacher and student to resemble more closely a father/son relationship. He kissed his wife on the lips and pulled back to study her, to run his eyes over her delectable pregnant figure, and his hands over her six-month belly bump. "You look tired, Aline. Go on home, I'll clean up in here and be right behind you."

"I love you," she whispered as she buried herself in his arms.

"And I love you," he said simply. As soon as she'd exited the room, his eyes took on an icy cold that would be enough to make a student shudder violently. He knew Aline, and although he restrained himself as much as possible from using his Legilimency on her, he could tell when something—more likely someone—had upset her. She'd been fine at lunch, so he had to conclude it involved this last class. Maybe, just for fun, he'd summon them all back here and demand to know what the little troglodytes had done. The thought gave him a great deal of pleasure, almost as much pleasure as he'd get from actually delivering a classic, caustic tongue-lashing to an entire class at once. He really missed that….

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"Oh my gosh, Daphne, it was hilarious—scary and hilarious, and not the kind of funny where you'd dare laugh out loud," Astoria qualified, jumping up from a plush green sofa in the Slytherin common room.

Other students who'd heard Astoria talking to her visiting sister had begun gathering in the long, low-ceilinged room, plopping into high backed chairs and leaning forward eagerly to listen. When Snape had been Head of House, rarely had anyone spoken so openly in the common room about Potions class or Snape himself. Others slouched against rough stone walls or even the carved mantelpiece on the fireplace, whose warm yellow firelight helped tone down the green glow cast by hanging lamps and being situated under the lake.

Astoria drew herself up and crossed her arms, trying to arrange her robes to look batlike. She lifted her chin to look down her nose and pulled a gruesomely frightening glare. In her best Severus imitation, which truly wasn't that accurate but close enough to set the pupils tittering, she drawled, " 'In my naïvete, I assumed I could trust a group of 7th years to behave in a manner befitting young adults. Rest assured you have disabused me of that notion. I will ask one time only: What did you miscreants do to distress my wife?'"

Astoria broke character to gush, "I mean, up till then we didn't even know why we'd been called back in. I swear, I thought one of the 'Puffs was going to wet herself, and when Snape asked that question—as if he needed to ask, he's a Legilimens!—Amy Abercrombie started crying. From guilt, no doubt."

Here Frank Kroos interrupted. "And terror, don't forget that. Snape reamed us for a good half hour in that intimidating don't-cross-me-you-little-shits way of his over how to behave in class and how to make potions like he was talking to a bunch of firsties. Except he used bigger, nastier words than they'd understand."

"And _then_ he made us all brew today's potion again," Astoria added, sliding down beside her sister once more. "He wrote each step on the board in big, block letters and made us read it aloud and go step-by-step with him as if we were babies! It was kind of embarrassing to be treated like idiots, only nobody had the guts to say 'boo'."

Daphne puckered her brow in light concentration. It was totally like Snape to berate a whole class for the actions of a few. It was also to be expected that he'd do something besides upbraiding to show his annoyance—hence the potion re-making. What surprised her was Aline; Regulus and Draco talked quite a bit about her, and it did not seem like her way to run crying to her husband if something bothered her. "Tori, did Mrs. Snape complain to him—did he say?"

Astoria thought back briefly. "No…I got the impression that she was upset but he didn't know why, and that's why he called us in. In fact, I'm sure she didn't say anything—he warned us to 'keep our big traps shut' about everything. Oh….." To the students listening in she announced, "That goes for all of you! If this gets back to Snape, all of us go down."

"Perhaps we ought to move to your room," suggested Daphne, getting up from the sofa. On the way up the stairs to the girls' dorm she said casually, "You know, you and Draco have been seeing each other for about nine months now. Do you think he's going to propose?"

Startled, Astoria blushed without turning around. "I don't know. He really likes me, I'm certain, but he hasn't said anything. And I'm still in school."

"Not for much longer." They turned left and walked down a few doors. "Besides, Malfoy men marry young, that's what I heard. Mr. Malfoy was only eighteen when he wed; Draco is nearly _twenty_. I get the feeling he may be getting pressure."

"Who says _I_ want to get married?" Astoria challenged as she flung herself onto her bed and looked up at her sister.

Daphne rolled her eyes and sat on the chair by the desk. What kind of question was that? Astoria was a pureblood young woman, she'd been groomed since birth to her duty in marriage and heir-bearing. In a sly voice Daphne said, "I've seen the way you two look at each other. If you're not careful, we may be throwing a baby shower before a wedding!"

"What about you and Sirius?" Astoria retorted. "You've been together as long as we have—a little longer. I've seen plenty of come-hither looks between you!"

A most unladylike snort escaped the other young witch. "He's fun, I can't deny that. But marriage?" She shook her head while pursing her lips. "Sirius needs to grow up a lot before I'd even consider it."

"He's very handsome," teased her sister, laughing. "If you let him get away, some other girl will snatch him up."

"I didn't say I was dumping him!" Daphne shot back defensively. "Anyway, we were talking about _you_. Go close the door, this isn't a side show."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Snuggling with Narcissa on the butter soft leather couch of his study while watching Ladon playing with his sister on a blanket draped over the rug was not the way to get work done. Lucius knew that better than anyone, which was the reason he'd assigned Draco the task of reading the mail, sorting it, and making recommendations on acquisitions and sales. The final say, of course, would rest with Lucius when he was in a more favourable state of mind.

Draco glanced up from the desk, heaved a sigh, and looked back at the parchment in his hand. "I can't concentrate with all of you in here."

Narcissa gave a small pout. No mother likes to be informed she's a hindrance to her son. "Are we bothering you, sweetie? We're trying to be quiet."

"I feel like you're watching me," Draco admitted. "And the kids are hardly what I'd call quiet." As if to prove him right, Khala screamed in glee at something Ladon had done, and the lad burst out in a belly laugh.

His mother looked from Lucius to Draco and back again. "It's my fault, honey. You and Draco were working, and I wanted to come spend time with you. I'll take the children and go."

"I'll go with you, my dear," Lucius grinned, squeezing her round the waist. "Draco can handle the tasks I've given him, I'll check over it later." So saying, he hoisted Ladon up onto his shoulders with an elated shriek from the boy.

Narcissa picked up Khala and nestled her in the crook of her arm. Lucius opened the door to usher his wife ahead of him, and was closing it when Sisidy came trotting down the hall, ears flapping and eyes agog…and Theodore Nott trailing after her.

"There is Master Malfoy!" She made a dramatic wave of both hands in Lucius' direction while grinning hideously back and forth from Theo to the man. "Master Malfoy, the Nott boy is comes to see you."

"Theodore, this is a surprise," Lucius said guardedly. The lad's father, while alive and well and living in Scotland, was purported to be one of the 'dead' Death Eaters. If his true status were to be discovered, hell would break loose on several fronts. "Is everything well with your family?"

"Yes, sir, they're fine," answered the youth, awkwardly wringing his hands.

Taking the hint, Narcissa planted a kiss on her husband's cheek. "I'll leave you two alone, then. You know where to find me, Lucius." She winked and sashayed off with both sets of male eyes glued to her rhythmically swaying bum.

Lucius broke the gaze in time to notice Theo staring at his wife. In lieu of a swift smack to the head, he cleared his throat very forcefully. "Theodore, how may I help you?"

"Oh—sorry," gulped the lad. He wisely refrained from mentioning that he could hardly be blamed for staring at something so captivating and attractive. For some reason he got the feeling Mr. Malfoy might take that the wrong way. "I, um—I need some advice." His eyes drifted up to Ladon, who was assiduously doing what appeared to be braiding his father's hair….making a snarled mess, at any rate. "It's about Jacinta."

A hard knot immediately formed in Lucius' stomach. The mention of Severus' daughter coupled with the expression on the young man's face did not bode well. Merlin's ghost, what if something was wrong with her and Theo hadn't the heart to talk to her family? What if the boy had—no, don't make assumptions, he cautioned himself. "What is it?"

"I can't ask my dad, it's too embarrassing and he'd just give me a lecture," Theo explained, ducking his head to hide the rush of blood to his face. He kicked self-consciously at a spot on the floor. "And if I mentioned it to Professor Snape or Mr. Mulciber they'd—well, I-I'm not sure, but I don't want to find out. The thing is, I've been with Jacinta for almost a year and a half, and we—um, I—"

Oh, good Lord God Almighty! He _was_—Theo was actually here to get The Talk from him! Lucius groaned inwardly so hard some of it managed to escape outwardly. This was his reward for being too bloody nice! It always backfired on him and caused him discomfort, humiliation, or pain in one form or another. He'd been kind to Theo over the years, and here came his reward! As delicately as he could make do in his current state of mind, Lucius said, "Hasn't anyone bothered to inform you on the facts of life?"

Theo bristled ever so slightly in his nervousness. "Yes, sir, I know all that."

"Then what is the problem?"

"How do I restrain myself when I really, really want to do it?" blurted Theo, causing a whole new burst of color in his cheeks and a renewed bout of scuffing his shoe on the carpet. "I mean, is there some trick or something?"

Ah, the age-old dilemma of man versus himself. _Good luck on that front, buddy boy_, Lucius mused. Had it not been for Narcissa's vigilance, Lucius would not have been a virgin on his wedding day! "Yes, there is a trick. No matter what, do not let it out of your pants."

Theo paused expectantly, waiting. When it was clear that Malfoy wasn't going to elaborate, he replied, "That's it? That's your advice?"

"Follow that recommendation and I guarantee Snape won't have to kill you—assuming Mulciber hasn't already done so," clipped Lucius, tossing his head. Well, trying to toss his head with Ladon gripping it on both sides and pulling for all he was worth. Lucius reached up and swung the tot to stand on the floor, then commenced an attempt at smoothing the tangles in his mane. At last he whipped out his wand and one swipe left it straight and manageable once again.

The door opened behind him and a dour looking Draco said, "Why don't you just marry her? Yes, Father, I heard everything."

Theo glanced up at his friend, grinning stupidly. As if it wasn't enough Mr. Malfoy got to witness his discomfiture! "She says she's not ready to talk about marriage, she thinks we're too young."

Both Lucius and Draco tilted their heads and frowned quizzically in exactly the same manner. For a Malfoy, marriage typically occurred between the ages of seventeen and twenty. Theo was nearly twenty, and Jacinta was almost twenty-one. To say they were _too_ _young_ simply did not compute.

"Beauxbatons nonsense, no doubt," Lucius growled. "You'd best warn your parents to closely monitor your brothers' education there."

"So, Mr. Malfoy—don't you know of any way to control the urge?" persisted Theo.

Lucius took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Since when had he earned the reputation of controlling nature? He'd had an unbearable time keeping his hands off Narcissa until they wed, how was he supposed to show this kid a better way? Whatever he said would be heard by Draco, who may later throw it in his face if the advice failed to work. Still, he had to say something. "Don't be alone with Jacinta in private, keep your hands off her…goodies, keep your britches buttoned, don't drink alcohol, get used to cold showers. Need I go on?"

Theo shook his head in dejection. He'd so hoped for a magic pill or— "How about a spell or a potion?"

"Too dangerous to use over the long term," answered Lucius sagely. Having researched the subject thoroughly as a boy, he knew of all the folk remedies and spells, as well as their consequences. "Unless you want to end up with a limp noodle for good?"

"No, no! That's alright. Thanks, Mr. Malfoy, I guess I'll try staying away from her like you said, and all that stuff," he mumbled, giving a little wave and backing up. "See you, Draco." As if afraid Lucius might shoot a hex at him, he turned and fled down the hall.

"So, Draco….have you learned anything?" inquired Lucius, smirking.

"Yeah—don't go to my father for advice on girls," Draco retorted with an eerily similar smirk. "You hear that, Brax?"

Hearing his name amidst all the rest he didn't understand, Ladon toddled over to his brother, grasped his pantleg, and pulled so hard Draco's trousers shot down past his hips. Draco frantically yanked them back up as Ladon demanded, "Day-co, play wi' me! Fa'er, play!"

"You heard the child," Lucius said smugly, starting to walk off. "Play with your brother. This conversation with Theodore has planted ideas in my head, I've got business with your mother." The next second he disapparated on his way upstairs.

"Too much information!" Draco shouted ineffectually after him before hustling his brother into the study and slamming the door.


	6. Sweetheart

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 6 (Sweetheart)

**December 21, 1939**

It was the last day of class before Christmas holiday. Although the air was cold and a thin layer of powdery snow lay on the ground, the courtyard teemed with bundled-up students excited to be going home. Many congregated in groups, others romped through the snow just happy to be out of class.

In a far corner of the courtyard, Tom leaned back against a sturdy oak, one foot drawn up, pressing on the tree; from here he was free to observe the other students without attracting attention himself. He failed to understand why everyone was so enthusiastic about leaving. This place was the closest thing to a home he'd ever had, and he was glad to be permitted to stay here over the holidays. Still, at times he wondered about his father, if he lived or died, if he was concerned at all that he had a son. Tom didn't _care_, not really…but he wondered.

He lifted his head at the sound of familiar voices approaching. Nott, Mulciber, and Lestrange made their way across the courtyard toward Riddle, engrossed in their own conversation.

"My dad said he'd buy me the fastest new broom," Nott was saying, grinning broadly. "I can't wait!"

Mulciber's eyes lit up and he nudged his friend. "My parents always talk to yours; I'll bet I get a new broom, too! We can go flying together over the hols."

Looking far less pleased than his companions, Claudius announced sarcastically, "Yeah, I can hardly wait to go home. My delightful mum and dad will be off in the Alps for Christmas, leaving me to take care of Varden while they're carousing. Nothing like babysitting a two-year-old to make you want to bash your brains out on a rock."

Nott glanced over at the younger boy, pity engulfing him. He loved his parents and they loved him; why couldn't it be that way for all kids? This Lestrange kid was a mere twelve, yet his idiot parents left him alone to tend a toddler? And at Christmas? What were they thinking? From the impression he got of Lestrange, this wasn't the first time. "You can come visit me if you like. Bring Varden along, stay until your mum and dad get home. Our house elf can help take care of him."

The younger boy scrutinized Nott, unsure whether the offer was sincere, as if he expected a laugh in his face at the grand joke. It wasn't like Nott to be a complete jackass, though. "Our stupid elf died. That's why I get stuck with the extra kid no one wants."

By now they'd gathered around Tom, who hadn't even acknowledged their presence; they so naturally flanked the youth that it was almost eerie to watch. Nott delivered a questioning look at Claudius, to which the latter gave a curt, abashed nod. "Yeah, thanks. If your parents say it's okay, that is. I'll owl you."

He averted his eyes, shame burning through him. He hated being left alone for days on end with Varden, though he was the only one who even gave a single damn about the kid. Varden was a useless pest, but he was his brother…he worried something might go wrong. He hated his parents for their complete disregard for family, yet he hated more being a charity case on a friend. Nott didn't try to make him feel that way, but he couldn't help how he felt.

He found himself staring straight into Tom's eyes, unaware of the light, unobtrusive Legilimency touch brushing the front of his mind, while simultaneously finding himself unable to look away. He remained fixed as Tom sifted the memories, discovering—to his astonishment—no love between Claudius and his parents. Claudius was treated well enough when the adults were around, as he was the heir; Varden, on the other hand, was seen as more of an unwelcome beggar. Interesting. If Tom were able to empathize, he would have done so.

Tom broke the bond, and to Lestrange he said, "Look on the bright side. When they die, you'll inherit their property."

Nott and Mulciber gaped in utter, appalled shock. Pureblood manners dictated that one did not discuss such matters, it was inappropriate, it was…wrong. The two quickly recovered themselves. If Lord Voldemort thought it was alright, it was alright. End of discussion.

Lestrange gave a little laugh, looking now more pensive than unhappy. "You're right. I hadn't thought of that."

A new group of children had joined the crowd, firsties let loose from their classes. Dolohov and Rosier picked their way through the mob toward Riddle and his cohorts. Minerva McGonagall skipped over to a gaggle of half the Gryffindors in the school, standing not far from Riddle's gang. Claudius' eyes followed her with an unconcealed resentment.

"Why do you bother with her?" Mulciber chided, shoving Lestrange. "You're like a lovesick puppy. It's nauseating."

"I don't love her!" Claudius barked, cheeks tingeing red. "I hate her, so there!"

"Oh, you really told him," Dolohov snickered.

Tom only half-listened to his comrades. His attention, too, had focused on the young girl who had received an unexpectedly warm welcome for being a measly first-year. She meant something special to them, evidently, as she did to Dumbledore. It certainly wasn't her abrasive personality they admired, was it? He smiled to himself.

Momentarily he gleaned why the throng appeared so enthralled: Minerva was performing Transfiguration tricks for them at a level far above those of her year, as they all ooohed and ahhhed, cheering her on. Not truly remarkable that they'd find it fascinating, since so few of their House seemed capable of harnessing their magic to its fullest potential. An orange butterfly that Minerva had conjured from a dead leaf fluttered around their heads. He smiled again, more of a contemptuous sneer.

A second-year boy sidled up to Minerva's side; she turned her head to beam at him. The next instant his hand slipped into hers, and she made no move to free herself.

Claudius took on an absolutely wild, predatory expression. "She'll let that filthy mudblood next to her, but she won't even talk to me!"

Ever helpful, Mulciber pointed out, "She's letting him _touch_ her. How repulsive!"

Lestrange, fists clenched and jaw so tight it ached, took a step in the girl's direction. He had no actual plan for what he'd do once he got there, what with the vastly overwhelming odds in Gryffindor favor, but he had to do something! The chit wasn't his, that wasn't the point; mudbloods had no place in magical society, especially when they sucked up to purebloods and halfbloods!

A spasm of irritation flicked over Tom's countenance. "Sit down." In spite of the snow, Claudius obeyed sullenly, dropping to his rear on the cold ground. In a low voice, lest it carry outside their circle, Tom went on, "You have every right to be angry. However, as you all may have noticed, Slytherins are not permitted free expression at this school. Any displays of your displeasure must be covert."

"What's what mean?" asked Rosier.

"It means," said Tom with a fleeting glance at Minerva through narrowed eyes, "that any acts of revenge or pranks cannot be done openly. If any of you are caught taking part in…unsavory activities…you will answer to me, assuming you've not been expelled. Consider yourselves warned."

A quiet ripple ran through the small group. The boys exchanged incredulous, wordless glances. At length Nott, the oldest among them, took the initiative to ask, "So we're not to fight back or defend what's right? We have to let them walk all over us?"

Tom stopped short of cuffing him upside the head. Did any of them ever _listen_? Mayhap one day he'd hex them for making him explain or repeat himself when the answer was right in front of their obtuse faces! "Did I say you could not? No, I did not. I said you mustn't be _caught_. Stealth is of the utmost importance. If you are careless now, the most that will occur is a teacher will apprehend you; you may be expelled, but you won't be going to Azkaban. If you are careless as an adult, an _auror_ will apprehend you, and I guarantee your fate will not be pleasant. Observe."

Flying overhead, a flock of birds was passing over Hogwarts. Tom looked up, locking his eyes on one of the creatures; it suddenly broke from its pack to swoop down toward the courtyard. To the consternation of the Gryffindor bunch, it flew right down into their midst, causing a commotion and a few screams from the girls. It snatched the butterfly in its beak and sailed off again, gobbling it down.

Placid-faced but well-pleased with himself, Tom murmured, "No one can prove I controlled the bird, can they? Therefore, no one can prove I was remotely involved. Do you understand?"

This time every boy's head nodded soberly. They were to be secretive; they were to be _Slytherin_.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**June 10, 2000**

_Dec. 22, 1939_

_ Everyone has gone home for the holidays, save myself and a few others. I believe I'd rather stay in my room than mingle with them more than absolutely necessary. Perhaps I'll take the opportunity to speak with Salazar again; it will be nice to have uninterrupted conversations with someone who understands me._

_ I obviously need to keep a close watch on my companions. Some of them tend to volatility; if they get in trouble, it may direct focus on me, which could seriously hinder my plans._

Foggy, insistent words drifting on the periphery of Snape's consciousness grew louder and plainer, distracting him from the diary. _I know you're there, Severus, I can see you!_ So Claudius Lestrange bore no love for his parents, eh? No big shocker there, not when Snape knew his parents had died of a 'mysterious poison' when Claudius was eighteen. He thought it ironically fitting that Claudius had been killed by his own son, Rabastan, when _he_ was eighteen. Lucius had informed him of this bombshell not so very long ago, though if the story were to be believed, Rab hadn't done so purposefully.

_If I have to come through the floo to make you answer me, I'll kick your skinny arse!_ With an almost audible snap, Severus sat up, clear-minded, and looked at the fireplace where Lucius was making a fire-call. Leaving the book on the desk, he got up and hurried to his friend. How long had Malfoy been there watching, demanding his attention?

"Yes, Lucius, I'm here. I was preoccupied," he said by way of excuse, pitiful as it was, hoping the man didn't push it.

"Narcissa and I are expecting you and Aline," Lucius stated abruptly, making Severus' stomach jump halfway into his throat. "What's taking so bloody long?"

Oh, crap! Double and triple crap! He always seemed to forget these diaries made time fly by so quickly. _Damn it, damn it, damn it!_ If Aline didn't tear him a new one, Narcissa just might! "Please make my apologies to Narcissa. I'm on my way home to get ready now. Assuming Aline doesn't crucify me, we'll be there shortly."

"I've fire-called your home, no one was there," Lucius responded, looking for all the world like he was pouting. "Are you two avoiding us?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Snape answered, both relieved and surprised at once. It wasn't like Aline to forget an engagement…but it _was_ like her to get so caught up in her work she neglected to check the clock. "She's probably in the lab and lost track of time. I'll head over there right now. We'll see you soon."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Rab secured the door of the veterinary clinic, put the keys in his trouser pocket, and sighed. Whether it was a sigh of contentment or disillusionment was debatable. Since Candice had quit her job shortly after his vitriolic, messy break-up with her, Dr. Gissell had charged him with locking up at the end of the day. Becoming so trusted by Dr. Gissell—or by anyone except his own brother, for that matter—wasn't something he'd ever anticipated, but it pleased him a great deal. He liked and respected the older wizard, he'd learned so much here…which saddened him when he allowed himself to think about it.

For nine months he'd been working and training with the doctor; soon he'd be ready to take the necessary exams to license him as a pet doctor in his own right. Once he was a full-fledged veterinarian, he'd have to move on and establish his own clinic, wouldn't he? He didn't look forward to that. This was the only place he'd felt truly useful and happy in his entire life. The notion had indeed occurred to him more than once that he ought to ask Dr. Gissell if he might stay on; he simply didn't know if he could handle the rejection if the answer was 'no'.

Veering off at the halfway mark on his way home, he headed down the street to the pub where Dolph was waiting for him and had insisted they meet. Even if it was a pathetic attempt to take his younger brother's mind off his woes, it was appreciated. It wasn't easy to forget six months with the only woman he'd ever dated.

Speak of the devil—or think of her, as the case may be! Passing by an outdoor café, he stopped in his tracks and the bile rose in his throat. There was Candice, seated at a small round table with a man who was busy nuzzling her neck and nibbling her ear while she laughed. A second later the man lifted his head, and the very air between the wizards seemed to freeze. It was Wallace Marshal, otherwise known as Walden Macnair!

Of their own accord, Rab's feet stomped right up to the table, his face a mask of fury, the veins in his neck standing out in livid ridges. "What the f—k are you doing with my girlfriend, Marshal?" he rasped.

"Hello to you, too," Marshal replied levelly.

"I'm not your girlfriend, we broke up like six weeks ago," Candice spat in a spiteful tone.

"And you ran right to him, I see," Rab growled.

Candice tossed her black hair over one shoulder as if to taunt her ex. She knew he'd always found it sexy about her. "I've only been seeing him for two weeks, if you must know. And not that it's any of your business, but at least _he_ knows what he's doing in bed."

Oh, low blow! Marshal averted his face to hide the smirk desperately trying to break through. As much as he enjoyed the compliment, he felt sincerely bad for Rabby; no man likes to hear he's an inadequate lover! She hadn't insulted his size or virility, though, only his technique; that had to count for something.

Flushing from shame while trembling with indignation, Rab snapped, "I don't say this to many women—in fact, I've never said it before, so you should take it as a special delivery—you're a bitchy little c—t! I'm lucky to be rid of you!"

"Wallace, are you going to let him talk to me that way?" demanded the witch, turning toward him.

Marshal, not one known for an overabundance of intellect, hesitated. He'd been a year behind Rabastan Lestrange in school; they'd been comrades, if not exactly friends, for many years. Hell, Rab had broken him out of Azkaban! That trumped everything. Besides, even if he hadn't felt gratitude, he was smart enough to be wary; Rab was an excellent dueler and wielder of Dark Magic. Marshal had witnessed in the past that Rab was capable of extreme ruthlessness rivaling Marshal's own, despite his claim that he was turning over a fresh leaf.

To the waiting Candice he finally said, "Yeah, I guess I am. You're a good shag, but that's all you are to me."

"Oh!" exclaimed the witch, jumping up. It was the least amount that either wizard had ever heard her say. She slapped Wallace across the cheek, turned, and flounced out.

Giving a crooked grin, Marshal got up. "No hard feelings, Rab?"

If looks could kill, only a minute ago Marshal would have been gasping for air. At the moment, Jorab seemed undecided on whether to be pissed at his friend or not. To be fair, Candice was free to do as she pleased. On the other hand, Marshal knew she'd belonged to Rabby…past tense. The lout simply didn't have the self-control to steer clear of dangerous situations. At last he shrugged one shoulder and gestured for the ex-Death Eater to join him. "Whatever. I'm going to meet up with Dolph down the street. Want to come?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Narcissa waved a hovering Sisidy away from the guests. After their nice dinner, they'd come to relax in the front parlor with some tea. Raising her cup to her lips, she took a sip of tea, smirking behind the delicate china. "So, Aline, are you craving Oreos yet?"

"What are Oreos?" asked the other as she snuggled on the sofa beside her husband.

Going ghastly pale, Lucius felt a shudder quake through his body. "A living nightmare! Avoid them at all cost!"

"Now, dear, let's not be melodramatic," Narcissa cautioned with a smile.

"_Melodramatic_?" Lucius echoed, rather bordering on histrionic. He leaned forward away from Narcissa to address Aline in a confidential tone. "When Narcissa was pregnant with Draco, she was behaving quite unreasonably. My father dragged me down the stairs by my earlobe and threw me out the door with the order to buy those wretched things. I was forced to go to a muggle store to purchase them!" His head swiveled back to his wife, and he tossed back his blond locks while intoning, "I'd think you could empathise a bit."

"You're the one who got me started, talking about how tasty they were!" Narcissa shot back.

"The Dark Lord made me eat it! What was I supposed to do, let him torture me—"

Their quarrel was interrupted by Aline. "I repeat, what are Oreos?"

"Cookies, chocolate muggle cookies," said Severus, shaking his head at his friend and rolling his eyes. "Yes, Lucius, it must have been a veritable pit of hell for you, savoring that creamy vanilla middle and crunchy chocolate outside."

"Yes, it was," Lucius retorted, drawing his robes tighter about him and sulking. He shuddered once more and set down his cup.

Remembering what Severus had told her of Lucius' complete abhorrence of all things Muggle, Aline understood Lucius' horror at being forced to mingle with those he considered less than himself. Not to say she agreed with his assessment, but she did understand it. Where she came from, there also existed those who believed themselves superior based on magical continuity. To be polite, she said, "Ah, I see."

With a justified gloat and an animated two-handed motion at Aline, Lucius proclaimed, "At least _someone_ commiserates."

Aline opened her mouth to clarify that she merely comprehended Malfoy's motivation, when Severus laid a hand on her leg and shook his head again. "Let it go, Aline. Let him have this one." Under his breath he grumbled, "Or he'll bitch and moan all night."

"Master Malfoy," Sisidy panted, scurrying into the parlor and clutching the wizard's pantleg. "Master Malfoy, Mr. Dolph comes—"

Before the poor elf could finish her sentence, an obviously inebriated Wendolph Goodman came stumbling into the room. Sisidy squealed a stream of high-pitched, unintelligible words denouncing the man, who'd been instructed to wait until summoned. Her bony hands, attached to stick-thin arms, shoved ineffectually at the wizard's rump in an attempt to remove him from the room. Dolph seemed unaware of her presence.

"Hey, Lucius! Cissy." His neck craned in the other direction and stopped at the blurry yet familiar images. "Hey, Snape. Snape's wife." He winked boldly at her and wagged a finger playfully. "You're way too pretty for him, ya know."

Aline recalled the first time she'd met Dolph, and he'd promptly propositioned her—that is, until he learned she was engaged to Severus, at which point he couldn't have been more gentlemanly. Struggling to hold back a laugh, Aline inquired, "Are you hitting on me?"

Dolph wagged his head, grinning. "Nah, I'd never do that to a married woman…unless you want me to." He wiggled his eyebrows and affected a come-hither look that came off as more of a could-I-be-more-of-a-drunken-fool look.

"I'm sitting right here, you moron," Severus said dryly.

"Oh, yeah." Dolph directed his bleary gaze to Aline again; he put his index finger to his lips and loudly said, "Shhh."

"Wendolph, why are you here?" Lucius interrupted, rising to his feet.

As if suddenly realizing Malfoy was there, Dolph spun around, tottered and fell to one knee, then staggered up. The alcohol-induced stupor precluded any embarrassment. "Oh, hey, Lucius. Whatta you need?"

"You were the one who came here to speak to _me_."

Dolph bent in closer, looking curious. "'Bout what?"

"How would I know?" Lucius exclaimed in exasperation. "Sisidy, take this buffoon up to a guest room. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit."

"Tha's so nice of you, Malfoy," slurred Dolph, slinging an arm round his friend's neck. Lucius tried to shrug it off, unsuccessfully.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed a touch. He wasn't being nice, he was being practical, damn it! "I don't want you dying in my house. Good night."

"'Night, sweetheart," returned his friend, kissing Lucius on the temple while crushing the wizard close with his arm round the shoulders. If it were possible to die of mortification, Lucius would summarily have collapsed on the floor; witnessing everyone's delight at his humiliation didn't help matters. Then Dolph waggled his fingers over at Narcissa and murmured, "'Night, Lucius."

As he slumped unconscious to the ground, Sisidy grasped a clump of his hair in her fist and popped out with him. Face flaming, Lucius cleared his throat and affected a nonchalant pose that fooled no one.

Unable to suppress a mighty smirk, Severus got to his feet and helped Aline up. "That's our cue, darling. When hammered wizards start to show up and smooch on your host, it's time to go."

"It was very kind of you to invite us. Dinner was lovely and we had a great time," Aline added.

There followed a general round of hugs for the ladies. When Severus shook Lucius' hand, he leaned in, leering, and cooed, "'Night, sweetheart."

He broke into a rollicking laugh along with the women as he and Aline headed for the floo. Even after the couple had vanished, a faint trace of merriment echoed from the fireplace.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"So that's what I remember from last night," Dolph said. He smacked his lips to get the feel of dried cotton out of his mouth. He'd faithfully relayed everything of the Candice-saga Marshal had filled him in on, including decking Marshal for being dimwitted enough to shag Rabby's old flame, and Rabby's stubborn refusal to pick up a girl in the pub. In a nutshell, it explained everything.

"That doesn't explain anything!" Lucius snapped. Apparently he still wasn't in a good mood from last night. The wizard stared so hard at Dolph his eyes started to cross. "Why did you come here last night, fully intoxicated, acting like a lout?"

"You know a lot of witches," Dolph said frankly. "I thought maybe you'd introduce my brother to a suitable lady."

"Why me? You're acquainted with a good deal of the witches in our circle," Lucius protested. Why did everyone come to him with their problems? Had he mistakenly been projecting an image of giving a rat's ass about their business? He'd have to remedy that.

"No, Rodolphus knew people," Dolph corrected him. "Since he is currently 'dead', I can hardly approach anybody I used to know. Come on, Lucius, Rabby's only ever shagged one woman in his life! How sad is that?"

_Oh, it just gets better and better_, Lucius mused sourly. Not only was he the designated resident therapist for every crackpot wizard under the sky, now he was being indirectly insulted! _He'd_ only ever been with Narcissa; did that make him some type of freak? Indignantly he snarled, "So now I'm expected to be a pimp?"

"I said a _suitable_ lady," Dolph repeated, sinking down onto the bed that the elf Cinchona had made up only minutes after he got up from his drunken slumber. He wore a cheerless, earnest look. "I love my brother. I just wanna see him happy. Maybe you can find a youngish widow or something."

It wasn't that Lucius objected to helping Rab find a mate, per se…alright, yes, it was. It was not his job to be a blasted matchmaker! His friends and acquaintances came to him for everything under the sun. Merlin's britches, being wealthy, handsome, and intelligent could be such a burden at times! What was his point again? Oh yes, matchmaking. Narcissa thrived at that sort of thing, he'd have to talk to her about it.

Huffing to let Dolph know he wasn't pleased with the request, he said, "I'll think about it and get back to you."

"Thanks," said Dolph. Lying back on the soft comforter, he closed his eyes. He really could use a few more hours of sleep. "Mind if I take a nap?"

"Go right ahead," Lucius drawled from the doorway. "And, Dolph—if you ever kiss me or call me 'sweetheart' again, I'll hex _you_ into a woman, and then Rabby won't be lacking in female companionship." He strolled out leaving Dolph to wonder what in blazes _that_ was all about.


	7. Different

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 7 (Different)

**June 15, 1940**

Tom had been watching Minerva McGonagall all year…some might go so far as to say he'd been stalking the girl. If hiding round corners to catch a glimpse of her with her friends, or if slipping into a broom closet to be close enough to hear her conversations, or if sending his first year minions, Dolohov and Rosier, to gather information on their classmate constituted _stalking_, then fine: he was stalking her. He felt not a glimmer of shame or misgiving over it, he was merely doing what needed to be done to further his goals.

Now here it was, almost time for school to let out for the summer holidays. She'd be going home to a loving family, while he'd be headed back to the orphanage. He hated it there, he'd always hated it there, only now that he knew he was a wizard and was capable of a great deal of magic that he wasn't even allowed to lord over the brats, he despised being there all the more. Having someone to communicate with—someone with better than average magical talent, that is—would relieve much of the boredom.

He spied Minerva by the lake, staring out over the water. She'd distanced herself from the ever present, grossly irritating pack of Gryffindors who stuck together as if glue held them fast. Even the third year boy she'd been linked to of late, replacing her earlier mudblood, was nowhere in sight. Tom furtively glanced about before coming out from behind a tree and walking up beside her.

"Hello, Minerva," he said, as though they'd been on speaking terms all year.

The girl gave a sidelong glance at the handsome, older boy, and said shyly, "Hello."

"You've got powerful magic." It was the most complimentary thing he could think of to say, and he'd noted that boys often complimented girls to win their affections.

"So do you," she replied, dipping her head and smiling.

What came over Tom, he couldn't guess, but the next minute his wand was in his hand, aimed at the lake. "_Risa fingere forme_," he commanded, and instantly the surface of the water began to roil and foam in a large circle. From the center of the froth arose a tall column of water that tumbled round and round itself, until there emerged the enormous image of a unicorn's head. Drops of water dripped from the grooved horn. Soon the whole animal stood before them, prancing on the surface of the lake.

"It's beautiful," Minerva breathed, staring in awe. Neither of them had noticed the stir caused by his show; students from all over the area had stopped what they were doing to watch.

"I know," Tom answered simply. "I can make it run, as well."

"Did you learn that spell this year?" asked the girl, very keen on the answer.

"No. I invented it myself."

Minerva gaped at him before catching herself. For a second she considered calling him a liar, but when she thought of it, all spells had to be invented by someone. "Do you think I could make up a spell?"

"I don't see why not," said Tom. "Think of all that you already know, and what they mean. Try to change them around to new phrases."

Smiling excitedly, heart pumping, the lass did as he instructed. She knew so many charms and hexes and ordinary spells…what would be something interesting, something new? "_Formo vain en widu,"_ she chanted, her wand pointed at the unicorn. To her delight and astonishment, the creature stiffened, made a multitude of 'cracks' and 'creaks', and transformed into a lovely unicorn statue of wood. Then it promptly tipped over with a giant splash to float on the lake.

"Excellent," Tom acknowledged. For a firstie, she was indeed advanced.

"I'm sorry it fell over," she replied mournfully.

Tom gave a tiny, smug smile, raised his wand again, and the wooden unicorn not only stood upright, but trotted across the water onto the bank, where it galloped over the grounds into the Forbidden Forest and was gone. "When the charms wear off, the forest will get a good watering." She giggled and he looked at her full on, face intent as he proposed, "I was thinking perhaps we could correspond over the summer, share spells and such."

"Truly?" She seemed confused. "But I don't even know you, not really."

"What better way to know me?" he asked.

"She doesn't need the attention of a slimy Slytherin," barked a voice behind them. They turned to see the gaggle of Gryffindors closing in, led by the boy in Tom's class, the one who had currently laid claim to Minerva. "Go back where you came from."

"That's not very nice, Alfred," Minerva snapped at him. "And you don't tell me what I can or can't do."

"We're your Housemates," interjected a sixth year girl. "We're looking out for you."

The young girl looked from her Housemates to Tom. Why did there have to be a choice? All she'd heard the entire year was how horrible Slytherins were, yet she'd seen no direct evidence of it. And yet, these were the people she had to live with for six more years; she didn't relish the thought of enduring animosity the whole time. It was easier to cave in now, wasn't it?

"Tom, could I talk to you?" Minerva led him out of hearing of the rest, then turned woebegone eyes on him. "It's probably best if we don't write to each other. There's so much tension between our Houses, and I…I don't want to have to fight with them. I'm sorry, Tom."

Riddle stiffened, much as the unicorn-turned-wood had, though his eyes wore a vacant expression the girl couldn't read. "My apologies. I shan't trouble you again. Good day, Minerva." He walked away without a backward glance.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**June 15, 2000**

_June 28, 1940,_

_ I'm back at the orphanage. As anticipated, I excelled at all of my exams. Since I have nothing better to do, I think I'll spend the summer dreaming up ways to punish those arrogant, swaggering bunch of blood traitors for turning Minerva away from me. I don't blame her; she's young and easily swayed by their bullying tactics. It's the Gryffindor pukes who spoil everything! This isn't over._

When Minerva glanced up from her parchment-cluttered desk, she expected to see a student. Instead, Snape stood only a meter away from her elbow, which startled her. _Damned, sneaky Slytherin,_ entered her mind before she had a chance to think. "Severus, what can I do for you?"

Severus took another few paces forward, his eye captivated by the fist-sized, carved wooden unicorn at the front of her desk. As if seeing it for the first time, he stroked the animal's neck. "You knew Tom Riddle in school." It was not a question.

Befuddled by the wholly unforeseen topic, McGonagall said, "I saw him around. I knew who he was. Why are you bringing this up?"

"And you never spoke to him?" An almost frighteningly blank countenance turned her way, waiting. She'd seen Snape hiding behind the empty look before, and this topped it by a mile.

"Well, I suppose I did, once or twice."

A hollow, eerie, even tone parroted back, "_You suppose you did._ You don't even remember?"

"Severus Snape, what has gotten into you?" exclaimed Minerva, rising from her chair. Her wand fingers twitched with a desire to hold their weapon.

Snape bent down to hiss in her ear, "He fancied you, and you knew he did."

Aghast, Minerva drew back. "Did he tell you that when you worked for him?"

Severus ignored her inquiry. Like a trial lawyer or an interrogator trying to gently coerce a confession, his accusations flowed like smooth honey. "You liked to flaunt your beaus in the faces of the other students, didn't you? You were a talented young witch who never lacked for suitors, you couldn't be bothered with a boy intent only on your mind, like Tom. How did it make you feel to join with your House against him, in spite of your interest? Were you ever sorry—"

"It is none of your business whatever may have passed between that lunatic and myself!" Minerva shrieked. "How dare you!"

As suddenly as it had begun, Severus drew back stiffly and inclined his head toward the woman. "My apologies. I shan't trouble you again. Good day, Minerva." He turned on his heel and walked off without the slightest attempt at billowing his robes.

Shocked—nay, horrified, Minerva watched him go, her heart dancing palpitations in her chest. Who was that? It wasn't Severus, no matter what he looked like…and yet, it couldn't be Tom. He was dead, he'd been dead for many, many years before Voldemort was finally vanquished.

She reached down to pick up the unicorn figurine. Cupping it to her chest in one palm, she stared down at it, remembering that faraway day at the lake. Things had been so different then; had the choice she made contributed to what Tom had become? Countless times over the years she'd asked herself that question, never able to know the answer. A tear coursed down her cheek, hovered on her chin, and dripped onto the unicorn's horn.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

When Draco and Astoria entered the main sitting room where Lucius and Narcissa were relaxing and talking quietly to one another, it was immediately evident that something was amiss. The girl's face was blotchy and streaked with tears that she'd repeatedly wiped off, only to have them replaced by a fresh batch. Draco looked sad, worried, and guilty as he clutched her hand in his.

Narcissa was the first to notice the youngsters, and she sat up very straight, her brow furrowing. "Astoria, what's wrong?"

The young witch pinched her lips together and glanced at Draco, a move not missed by Lucius. He, too, straightened in his seat, dark thoughts automatically filling his mind.

"I need to talk to you," Draco murmured. His eyes flitted everywhere, it seemed, except to meet those of his parents.

Those six dreaded words caused Lucius' heart to stop briefly. No. No, this could not be. If Draco had gone and gotten Astoria knocked up after The Talk a month ago with him and Theodore Nott, he'd beat the boy bloody! Hell's bells, all his life Draco had been taught to remain chaste for his wife! He felt Narcissa squeeze his hand so hard he almost cried out. Merlin's ghost, where did she get such strength?

Draco came around and sat at the edge of an armchair, facing his parents. Astoria climbed on his lap, wrapping her arms round his neck and sobbing softly into his chest. "Mother, Father, I've been thinking a lot since we went to see Xerxes," he began, finding the coffee table much more amenable to look at than the older witch and wizard. "I've decided to move to the Ukraine to work on my skills in dragon telepathy."

Silence. Had it been a tad later in the evening, the only sound might have been crickets chirping.

Unable to properly process what he was hearing, Lucius blurted, "What has this got to do with Astoria being pregnant?"

Every stunned eye in the place, including the portraits of Abraxas and Thalia, landed squarely on Lucius before shifting rapidly to Draco, who sputtered pitifully, "W-what? What are you talking about?"

At this point Astoria raised her head, looking every bit as confused as her boyfriend. "I'm not pregnant! Who told you such a lie?"

"Yes, Lucius, I'd like to know who told you," Narcissa agreed as she studied her husband. If he'd heard this rumour, why had he not informed her? Why had his gossip source not informed her?

"Well, no one…I just thought—what is this nonsense about moving to the Ukraine?" demanded the patriarch, congratulating himself on seamlessly changing the subject. Now that the fear of becoming a grandfather before he'd acquired a daughter-in-law had subsided, he was free to allow a bout of mortification to wash over him at the notion of his son, a Malfoy, performing manual labor as a dragon handler.

"I have a talent, Father. You were the one who noticed it," said Draco in a voice tinged with supplication. "I need training and practice to develop it."

"Why can't you talk to Xerxes?" asked Narcissa in an unnaturally high voice. "I don't like the thought of you mingling with those wild beasts."

"That's what I said!" Astoria cut in. She threw an accusing stare at Draco, her lips trembling.

"I need to practice on more than one dragon," Draco explained calmly. "Xerxes is great, but his mate is dangerous—and she won't let me near the babies." He took a few deep breaths to prepare himself for what came next. "I've spoken to Charlie Weasley, and he's agreed to accompany me."

Correctly anticipating the veritable outrage at this, Draco slid back in his chair as Lucius barked, "Since when do you socialise with Weasleys?"

It wouldn't do to make a smart aleck remark or point out that he'd been playing Quidditch with the Weasleys and Potter—albeit on the opposing team—for months now, with his father's knowledge. Years of living with Lucius had taught him that much. _Stick to pertinent facts that support your cause._

"He's competent and respected in his field, Father. I don't like Weasleys any more than you do, but I trust him to help me in this. He said he's heard of a few people throughout history who talked to dragons, and he was really excited—anyway, he takes everything having to do with dragons very seriously, including safety issues."

"Sweetie," Narcissa said, leaning in and reaching out to touch his knee, "isn't there any other option? Why is this so imperative? You're just going to uproot your life? What about Astoria? What about your family?"

"Mother, this is important to me because…you wouldn't understand." The glower coming from Lucius said he'd better try to make them understand. "In school I was smart, but Granger always beat me in all my classes. I'm good at flying, but Potter beat me in Quidditch. I was never different, I was never special."

"You are special to us, darling," cooed Narcissa. "I'm sure your father would agree that being a Malfoy makes you special."

"I know that, Mother. But this is a skill, something almost no one else can do. I need to do this. I'm not abandoning you or running away. I'll come back—"

"In a year or two!" Astoria wailed, rousing the emotions in her again. "Am I supposed to sit at home and wait for you while everyone laughs at me behind my back because I drove you away?"

"Astoria, this isn't the place," Draco said softly, trying to hug her, but she shoved herself up off of him. "We talked about this. You can come with me."

"Oh, no, she can't!" Lucius growled.

"No, I can't!" Astoria shrilled at the same time. "My parents would never let me move to another country with a man who isn't my husband! Don't you care at all about my reputation?"

"Of course I do, only I can't get the training I need here!" Draco exploded, rising to his feet. "Why can't you be supportive? If it were you, I'd try to understand. I've made up my mind; I'm going."

Astoria opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. She pushed past Draco, took a pinch of floo powder from the urn beside the fireplace, and stepped inside. Momentarily she was gone back to Hogwarts. Draco stood staring after her like a forlorn puppy.

"Nicely done, son," Lucius observed sarcastically. "Sit down. Your mother and I have a plethora of questions and concerns. We've a lot to discuss."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"This would be a lot easier if you weren't eating," Jacinta sighed, putting down her paintbrush to wipe off her fingers on a paint-smeared rag. Smudges of brown and black decorated one cheek and the tip of her very Snape-like nose, smaller version.

Regulus poked the remainder of a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich into his mouth, smiling at the witch as he chewed. Finally he washed it down with a few gulps of cold milk, wiped a hand over his mouth, and let out a contented breath. "I was hungry. I offered you one."

"Reg, I'm trying to paint your portrait. I'm used to working from old photos—"

"Which _move_," Regulus interjected with a smug grin.

"But they don't talk and eat," Jacinta countered, shaking her head. Her soft, light brown hair swayed back and forth around her neck. And she'd thought painting an actual, live subject would be a welcome change from what had become mundane at her job! "I'm still not entirely sure why you want me to do this."

In reply, Reg shrugged, eyes twinkling. "I just thought it'd be cool to be able to talk to myself—face to face, you know."

"That's what mirrors are for," retorted Jacinta dryly in a tone that exactly mimicked Severus. "Besides, I don't think we can animate portraits of people who are still alive."

"Ah, there's the rub," said Regulus triumphantly. "I died."

Good point. To date, none of Jacinta's subjects or those of her employer had been people who had been previously dead before their definite, final death. It couldn't hurt to try to animate the portrait, and for once _she'd_ be the one reciting the spell instead of Mr. Peak. She found the notion rather titillating; it was almost like creating life.

"Okay, Reg, we'll give it a shot. I'm tired, though, we'll have to pick it up tomorrow." Already she'd started swishing out her brushes in a cup of smelly solution. "Have you seen Theo lately?"

Regulus had moved from the wingchair, where he'd been posing, over to the sofa and flopped down, television remote in hand. "He was here last week. Why?"

"Did you notice him acting strangely?" she inquired, her keen blue eyes scrutinizing the youth.

"Can't say I did. Is something going on?" The young man sat up to look at her, the telly forgotten.

Jacinta averted her gaze, pretending to be more preoccupied with her cleanup duties than was strictly necessary. She shrugged offhandedly, yet her tone indicated an urgency. "Over the past few weeks he's been acting…different. Like he's drifting away from me. I just wondered if he said anything to you."

"No, sorry," Reg answered. He patted the seat beside himself for her to join him. After a few moments of internal deliberation, Jacinta tossed her work implements down and came to sit with him. "How's Theo being different?"

"He barely kisses me anymore, except a quick peck; he doesn't touch me or hold my hand like he used to." The young lady's eyes welled with tears. "I'm afraid he wants to dump me, but he doesn't have the guts to say so."

"I doubt that—I mean, that he wants to dump you," Regulus soothed, petting her leg. "The poor bloke is smitten."

"That's what I thought. Maybe he decided he wants a more 'rounded' type," she murmured.

Regulus regarded the witch through objective eyes—as objective as he could be to a friend, and the daughter of a good friend. Yes, she was thin, much thinner than he'd choose for himself, but when she dressed up she could look positively radiant. Despite the miniature Snape hook nose, she was quite fetching, she was intelligent, and she was generally loads of fun to be around. If Theo was dumb enough to throw her over for a girl with big knockers, he was an idiot, pure and simple.

"Did you ask Theo what's going on?" Reg queried.

"Yes. He says nothing's wrong," she replied quietly.

"Talking about me behind my back?" Theo asked, strolling into the house from the back garden where he'd apparated. His face wore a cross, grim expression. He closed the door with a 'snap'.

Regulus stood up, purposely wiping his own face blank. "I seriously need to put some kind of locking spell on that door. Jacinta was telling me she wants to break up with you. Is that alright with you?"

"Reg, I—" Jacinta began.

"_Break up?_" Theo howled. He literally ran from the door and skidded to a halt in front of Jacinta, gaping like his world was tumbling down before his dumbstruck eyes. "Why? What did I do? You don't want _him_, do you?" he babbled, gesturing at Regulus.

"I happen to be quite a catch," Reg smirked, trying unsuccessfully to appear indignant.

"No!" Jacinta responded. There were too many questions coming too quickly to adequately answer any of them.

"Am _so_ a good catch," Regulus insisted.

"Reg, I'm not talking to you. Theo, I never said I wanted to break up, that was his idea of a joke," Jacinta gushed. She elbowed Regulus in the ribs. "It's not funny!"

Nonetheless, Black grinned in spite of himself. "You got your answer, didn't you?"

Sure enough, Theo had taken the young lady's hand in his and had seated himself so close to her he was almost in her lap, his arm squeezed about her waist. He kissed her repeatedly on the cheek, forehead, and lips while mumbling terms of endearment.

"You're right on time, Theo. Our wrestling programme is about to start." Regulus clicked on the telly, flopped down beside the snogging couple, and basked in his own brilliance.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

In the darkened bedroom, Aline lay awake running today's events through her mind. It wasn't like Minerva to express doubts or concerns about members of the faculty…not to Aline, at any rate. True, since Severus was Aline's husband, it only made sense for the older witch to come to her to say Severus was behaving 'very peculiar'. What bothered Aline wasn't that Minerva had come to her; it was that she was sure Minerva was right. This wasn't the first time in the last few months that uneasy feelings had surfaced.

Because her clairvoyance had always been unpredictable and impossible to control, Aline had given up trying long ago. Now seemed a good time to give it another go—if not to control what she saw, to at least open herself up for anything preying on Severus' mind. Lord knows, she'd heard her father and Abby talk about it often enough to know what _should_ happen.

She rolled over and gently cupped Severus' cheek in her hand. He flinched and stirred, at once wide awake; just as quickly, he relaxed into her and moaned a light sigh of contentment.

"In the mood for loving, Aline?" he whispered in her ear as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to him.

Already she felt her resolve fading. She let herself melt into him, to the natural, comfortable position of her head on his chest, listening to his steady, strong heartbeat. And then, with her cheek plastered to his bare chest, it struck: a jumbled, disjointed vision of a young Voldemort—Tom—and his cronies; Tom in a filthy, underground tunnel of some sort; Tom with a skinny young girl. The overwhelming rage and disdain emanating from the young psychopath was palpable. She was used to the emotions associated with a vision, this didn't bother her…it was the covert, seething anger she sensed in Severus, far removed from his normal cantankerous attitude, that made her shudder. She knew without a doubt that those diaries he tried to hide from her were the cause of it.

"We need to talk first," she said, struggling over a catch in her voice. She was grateful for the dark, for Severus couldn't read her face or use Legilimency on her. "It's N.E.W.T. time at school. I should be there for my students, at least until the Potions exam is over."

Severus let out a light snort. "Sweetheart, you're there all day."

"If they're studying at night and need help, who can they go to? Bayly is at home with Gloria, you're here, and no one else knows squat about potions," she argued.

Severus nodded; he could hardly disagree with that assessment. "Nevertheless, I'm sure they can hold their questions till morning."

"I want them to do well," Aline persisted. "Their recent essays were despairingly bad, Severus. I told you about that."

"I thought they'd fixed them to our—your standards," Severus crooned, smiling to himself to recall the dressing-down he'd given the entire class. That had been great fun. He should audit other classes and look for opportunities to shape up the student body.

"They did, but—honey, I'm concerned. I've made up my mind that I'm going to stay at Hogwarts for the next week. My old quarters are empty, they're near the children." _And I'll have plenty of free time to look for those damned books and find out why they affect you so much._

"You know, Aline, as Headmaster I have authority over my teachers. I can forbid you to stay there at night."

Was he teasing or threatening? Aline honestly couldn't say. Teasing certainly wasn't his style…but would he dare try to force her hand like this? Before they'd come to know, respect, and eventually love one another, he'd been an ass with a capital 'A' to her; he was capable of being a complete jerk when he put his mind to it.

Indignant at his superior attitude, she pushed off from his chest and sat up—not an easy feat anymore with her large belly. "You'll _forbid_ me? And how, pray tell, are you planning to stop me? If you ever tried to physically restrain me, I'd blast you so hard—"

"_Aline_." Severus sat up, shaking his head and sighing. "I will never treat you as anything less than my cherished wife. You needn't become defensive or hysterical."

"_Hysterical_?" Aline echoed, feeling strangely like a parrot. "Why is it if a woman shows passionate emotion, she's 'hysterical'; if a man does the same, he's being 'vehement'?"

"Maybe because men aren't acting on pregnancy hormones." Oh, Merlin's big fat beard, had he just said that out loud? He winced inwardly, realizing the instant the words escaped his mouth that they were the wrong thing to say. Very, very wrong thing. He sincerely needed to rely more on his spy training to censor his speech if he hoped to live through this pregnancy!

Pouting, his wife swung her legs over the edge of the bed, got up, and with wand in hand she stomped to her bureau. A glaringly bright _lumos_ made them both shield their eyes. Aline began to yank clothing from her drawers and throw them on her side of the bed, while simultaneously summoning a bag from the closet.

"Aline, this is asinine." Oh, good Lord, had he done it again? If he could kick his own ass to keep from digging his grave deeper, he'd happily do so.

"It's nice to know what you think of me," clipped Aline. She flicked her wand and the clothes folded themselves and slid into her suitcase. "I'm hysterical and asinine. It's a good thing you won't have to deal with me then, isn't it?"

Powerless to deny the first untoward remark, Severus drawled, "I did not call you asinine." He struggled briefly with the words clogging his throat, threatening to suffocate him for his stupidity. He'd thought that over time it would get easier to express regret verbally, and in a way it had…but it was still so blasted difficult. For Lucius, the words positively rolled off his tongue; then again, Lucius tended to be glib and insincere when the situation called for it. He shouldn't try to emulate that. "I'm sor-ry. Please forgive me."

Aline stopped what she was doing. Severus was apologizing? Those words did not come often or easily to him, and the fact that he'd choked them out had to signify he meant it, he really was sorry. Turning to him, she said, "Why do you have to be so infuriating?" A crooked smile let him know all was forgiven.

"Why did you marry me?' he responded, smirking and winking at her.

She placed her bag on the floor and knelt on the bed, where Severus came to hug her, to kiss her protruding belly and move up to plant a kiss on her lips. All resistance gone, she let herself be pressed down to the bed.

"I'm still staying there tomorrow," she insisted.

"I know," Severus agreed quietly when he'd pried his lips from her neck. "And I'm staying there with you. I can't bear to be apart from you."

Damn! So much for her well-laid plan!


	8. Portrait of a Man

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 8 (Portrait of a Man)

**September 18, 1940**

_"I said to myself it wasn't over when the Gryffindorks convinced Minerva to shun me,"_ Tom hissed at the portrait of Salazar Slytherin. He paced back and forth before the picture, his dark eyes gleaming as he gloated over his revenge. He'd bided his time—all summer and two weeks into the new term—to avoid any association or hint of impropriety on his part, and it had paid off nicely. _"That Alfred Bucket thought he was so tough, didn't he, then? He doesn't think so now, if he thinks anything at all."_

_ "What did you do?"_ asked Salazar curiously. For a former teacher, he seemed remarkably unconcerned that a boy had been hurt.

_"He's a Quidditch chaser. Apparently Minerva has an affinity for the game and anyone who plays it,"_ Tom spat out, no longer looking pleased. _"No one can prove I charmed his broom to go faster, and made it harder to control. It was inevitable he'd fall off, and good fortune he was high up when he did. I'd only hoped to make a fool of him in front of everyone, but this was so much more satisfying."_ Tom's mood brightened considerably as he dwelt on the ramifications of his spell. _"The stupid Gryffindor will be in the hospital for a good long while."_

Salazar nodded sagely, albeit a bit sadly. Godric Gryffindor had been his friend at one time, but after their falling-out, Salazar had left Hogwarts. He'd heard that relations between his House and Godric's had remained strained, though he'd assumed all these centuries would surely serve to lessen the divide, not exacerbate it. Evidently he was wrong.

At last, sighing, he said in ordinary English, "Why is it witches and wizards must fight one another? Is it not enough that we must band together against muggles for our mere survival?"

The teenager looked askance at him, eyes narrowed. "The world has changed a lot since you were alive. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"

There was a deep-throated laugh of derision. "They've hidden my portrait in this labyrinth. I can count on one hand the number of students who have seen me, let alone taken the time to speak with me." He held up one bony hand beside his face. "And none save you in centuries. Were it not for occasional visits from a few portraits, I'd have had no company at all."

Riddle paused before responding. Most students never ventured further than the common room or dormitories, they had little interest in exploring the maze of hallways in the dungeons. If Slytherin had not spoken to a student for over two hundred years, he would naturally assume that things had gone on as they had for—well, forever. Until the Industrial Revolution, not much had changed from age to age.

"For the past century or so, the magical world has hidden itself from the muggles," explained Tom, carefully noting the incredulous set of the old Founder's face. "Now they no longer even believe witches and wizards exist."

Dumbfounded, Salazar murmured, "That's not possible."

"Of course it is. The muggles are stupid sheep; they believe what they're told to believe and see what they want to see," answered Riddle with a sneer. "I can't speak for the rest of the world, but in England it's so."

"But surely the beasts still produce magical children," Salazar argued. "What happens then?"

Tom pulled a twisted face. "Yes, the filthy creatures continue to be born, but their parents don't realize what it means unless a witch or wizard makes contact to explain it to them."

Salazar sat pondering for such a long time that Tom wondered if he was going to respond at all. When he finally broke his silence, a spark of hope tainted by disbelief shone in his eyes, and he spoke as if he were still alive and actively involved in society. "So if the general non-magical population is no longer aware of our existence, we need no longer fear their persecution. This is momentous news!"

Dipping his head in token acknowledgement, the youth replied, "True. On the other hand, why should we have to hide from them? _We_ are the ones with power, _we_ ought to be ruling the world, including subjugating muggles for our benefit."

Slytherin shook his head vehemently. "There are many more of them than us, Tom. I lived in a time when we were hunted and afflicted because they feared us. They outnumbered us, we could not fight them all. They would rise up and destroy your world if you revealed yourselves to them."

Tom ducked his head, pretending to think, his lips struggling to hold back a smile as he played on the old wizard's emotions. "Then perhaps I shouldn't bother letting loose the basilisk."

"It is all the more important that you do!" snapped Salazar in agitation. "Letting mudbloods into the school allows their muggle families to know about the magical world! It endangers all you've tried to hide."

Feigning a revelation, Tom conceded with a tiny smirk, "Of course you're right. Once the basilisk runs off the mudbloods, the teachers will see it is unwise to contact muggles and blab about our world. We can finally live in peace without interference from the lesser beings."

_"Precisely,"_ agreed the Founder, switching to parseltongue. _"Which reminds me: I need to teach you spells and phrases to control the basilisk. We may as well begin now."_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Tom made sure not to arrive early for lunch in the Great Hall. He'd also instructed his followers to hold back until a good many witnesses were present to make their entrance, thereby excluding them from suspicion of illicit activity before the student body arrived. Oh, there had been that one order to Dolohov and Mulciber to 'prepare for the event', but they'd gotten in and out long before the first pupil showed up for the meal.

The gang settled in at the Slytherin table as usual, all on one side facing the Hall. As if not anticipating anything out of the ordinary, they filled their plates and chatted and ate like every other day. All around them, people talked and laughed and indulged, exactly like any other meal.

Then, all of a sudden, the thunderous sound of thick wood cracking filled the Hall; screams, horrendous crashes, and thumps immediately followed. All talk and eating stopped as heads swiveled, searching for what had occurred, and the spectacle was not hard to spot: every Gryffindor bench had simultaneously collapsed, their broken-off legs shooting out in all directions as the pupils tumbled to the floor on top of one another. Plates, cups, and remnants of food covered the floor and the children, who wallowed amid the wreckage trying to stand up and help their companions.

From the Head Table up front, the professors came running to assist students who were shrieking or moaning from various injuries, including twisted and broken limbs, and crushed fingers or feet. The reaction of the general student body ranged from undisguised hilarity to sheer disgust at such a dangerous prank. At the Slytherin table, none of Riddle's comrades dared more than an assiduously-practiced, wide-eyed expression of horror. They could laugh and congratulate each other later, in private.

Professor Dippett, the Headmaster, stood up and surveyed the crowd very sternly. "This was no accident. Whoever is responsible, bear in mind that we will be investigating this cruel, unprovoked incident. Go on to your classes now."

Tom timed his leaving to coincide with meeting Minerva, who looked shaken up but sound and healthy. "You weren't harmed, were you?" he asked.

"No, I'm alright," she said, glancing back at several of her Housemates on the floor yet. "Who would do such a mean thing?"

Shrugging in bemusement, Riddle answered in a sympathetic tone, "I don't know. I'm glad you're okay."

"Thank you, Tom," Minerva said, smiling up at him. "That's very kind of you." She waved surreptitiously, her hand low down at her hip lest her Housemates see, and slipped out the door.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**June 25, 2000**

_Sept. 18, 1940_

_ This year is hopping along rather well so far. My fourth year teachers all like me, naturally…only Dumbledore seems cautious to trust me. I can't let my guard down around him. It's my own fault for blabbing to him the first time we met, but it was so exciting to learn I wasn't a freak, I'm a strong wizard. Nonetheless, he is also a Legilimens; I will exercise vigilance._

_ Salazar taught me a new spell today to aid in controlling the mind of the basilisk when I awaken it. I really should ask Salazar if the basilisk is male or female. I hate referring to the creature as 'it', when it will be, for all intents and purposes, my servant. Maybe even a sort of pet, though I find animals tedious and needy._

_ My vengeance on the Gryffindors has gone according to plan. Alfred Bucket has been punished for his impertinence, and Minerva is free of his domineering influence. I found it necessary to hex Dolohov and Mulciber for failing to protect Minerva when the benches at the table collapsed. I specifically ordered them to distract her, keep her from the Hall—I even provided one of her books that Rosier nicked from her in Astronomy class, which they were to return to her by way of a note directing her to its location. Had she been preoccupied retrieving the book, there'd have been no danger of her being hurt. Dolohov forgot to owl the note to her, and Mulciber forgot to remind him. Next time they will step more carefully._

_ I spoke briefly with Minerva after the incident, which is the only reason I didn't use the Cruciatus on those bumblers. I don't understand why I want to talk to her, only that it makes me feel good to do so. Except that strange, warm sensation that came over me today when she smiled at me; I really must go to the infirmary and have the mediwitch check to see that I'm not ill. When I told Nott, I swear he looked primed to tell me it was __love__. He's very weak that way, his whole family is the same. Instead, he kept his mouth shut, to his benefit. Why can't anyone else comprehend that interest, lust, or desire do not equal love? I would never be foolish enough to love, because love leads to weakness. And Lord Voldemort is not weak!_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Breathing in shallow, frenzied gulps, Bayly surveyed Snape's office briefly before heading for the desk. It was the most logical place to keep those diaries Aline had told him about, the ones making Professor Snape act so oddly. Everyone noticed it; even Professor McGonagall had commented on it, which wasn't her style at all.

As they put away supplies for the summer, now that all the children had gone, Aline had mentioned to Bayly that she intended to search her husband's office, only the man stuck to her like a shadow. She'd begun to wonder if he'd used Legilimency on her, if he knew her plan and was deliberately thwarting it. And so, like a caring friend, Bayly had taken it upon himself to ransack the office. Alright, ransack was a harsh, inappropriate word; but he had come to steal something, so it was hardly an innocent happening-by.

Every drawer of the desk was locked. No surprise there. If they hadn't been, _that_ would have been a shocker and cause for real alarm. Bayly snapped his wrist and his wand flipped into his fingers. _Alohomora_ was ineffective. He tried every variation he knew of every spell and charm remotely connected to locks or warding, to no avail, until he was becoming right panicky that the headmaster would catch him in the act and do unspeakably gruesome things to him.

"Why don't you try _Dimitto binta, an ond eal_," suggested Albus from his portrait.

The young man's head whipped up at the voice, his heart caught in his throat. "Oh, it's you," he whispered. "Thanks, I will." A moment later, the top drawer slid open easily, revealing a stack of old, leather-bound diaries.

"Severus may be wily, but I've known him most of his life," Albus smiled as he popped a tart cherry drop into his mouth. "He realises that almost no one would know that spell."

"Why's that?" asked Bayly, getting antsy to leave.

"Because I invented it, and it was never made public," replied Dumbledore, eyes twinkling madly.

"Why are you helping me rob him?" asked Bayly, more wary than curious.

"Because he's become irrational. He can't see how those things affect him, although everyone else evidently does. And because I've seen and heard enough of you to believe you're a good soul. That said, I strongly advise you to keep them closed, do not read a single word, lest they prey upon your mind as well," Dumbledore admonished.

"I'll do that, sir. Thank you." Bayly scooped up the books, closed the drawer, and hustled out of the office as fast as his Quidditch-strengthened legs would carry him.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The Burrow, as usual, abounded with people. Any news gathered from outside quickly made the rounds here, including Charlie's impending journey to the Ukraine with none other than Draco Malfoy. In fact, the topic had been a hot one around the home ever since Charlie brought it up. At the moment, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Romilda Vane had kicked back in the living room on the ground floor, all discussing and dissecting the information.

"And Charlie believes that Malfoy can talk to dragons!" scoffed Ron with a snort thrown in for good measure. "Just because Malfoy claims he can. I can't believe that Malfoy git! He'll say anything, won't he?"

Ginny shoved her brother's feet off the coffee table to make room for her own. "Why would he lie about it, Ron? He'd be found out pretty quickly."

"I think it's fascinating," interjected Romilda as she cuddled against Ron. "My mum's great-aunt used to have a familiar she talked to all the time…but it was a cat. I've never heard of people talking to dragons."

"I have," said a deep voice. Charlie came in carrying a steaming cup of coffee and leaned on a support post facing the group. His long red hair was pulled up into a loose ponytail, his rolled-up sleeves displaying his powerful biceps. "It's a very rare talent. You all can't get enough of talking about Draco, can you? Are you jealous, Ron?"

Ron snorted again and made a face at him. "He's a liar, Charlie," he insisted, nudging Harry to back him up. Harry remained strangely silent as he had for the entire conversation, so Ron continued, "It's best you find out now. He's probably got some evil trick up his sleeve."

"Like what?" challenged the older Weasley. "If he meant to cause trouble, isn't going all the way to the Ukraine a bit of a stretch? And I'm hardly worried that he can outduel me."

Ron paused to ponder. "Well, maybe he—"

"Ron, can we talk about something else? Please?" Harry interrupted, looking disgusted. He sent a plaintive expression Charlie's way.

Charlie smiled and took the hint, along with a swig of coffee. "Ron, let it go. We all know what Lucius Malfoy did to Ginny with that diary horcrux thing, even if we can't prove it. Draco is not his father, and maybe you all hated each other in school, but you're grown up now. Try to act like it."

Shooting his brother a disgruntled frown, Ron opened his mouth to reply when he was cut off by a sharp rapping at the back door. Not waiting for an invitation, Regulus stuck his head in.

"Hey, all! Can I come in?" As he said it, he walked on in with nods and waves to the group. "Hi, Harry. I've been searching for you."

"Regulus!" exclaimed Harry. From the tone, one might guess he'd not seen the youth for ages. For the first time since the Draco conversation had begun, he looked happy. He got up to offer Reg his hand and made a motion toward an empty seat. "Did you get those tickets?"

In answer, Reg reached into the breast pocket of his robes and produced four tickets for a World Wrestling Federation event being held in Boston, Massachusetts. He waved them like a fan as he crooned, "King of the Ring competition tonight. The Rock goes for the WWF championship in the main event, a six-man tag team." He actually let out a gleeful giggle, followed by an embarrassed flush.

"The Rock?" repeated Ginny. "Is that some ugly bruiser?"

"Indeed not," said Regulus incredulously. "Geez, Harry, don't you talk to Ginny about your extracurricular activities? Ginny, dear, Rock is considered one of the buffest—that's the word, yeah?—and fittest men in wrestling. I'll have to show you the photo—muggle photo, mind you—that I got of me with the Rock in October of last year. He was in a steel cage match with Triple H, but I suspect you don't know who that is, either." Here he looked rather glum. "Sorry I haven't got a ticket for you. I know you'd like it."

"I didn't think you'd be interested," Harry protested at his girlfriend's inquisitive stare.

"You could've asked," said Ginny, a tad miffed. "I like sports, and you know I'm really into muggle stuff."

"Not me," Romilda cut in. "I mean about sports. I'd rather stay home with Ron." She shot a meaningful glance at her beau.

Proving that he was not always a thick-headed ninny, Ron piped up, "Ginny can have my ticket. I'll go to the next one." He squeezed Romilda's hand and smiled.

"Thanks, Ron, that's so…not like you!" Ginny responded enthusiastically, jumping up and down slightly on the sofa. "But it was so nice. This'll be fun, Harry!"

Charlie pulled an old "I Like Ike" campaign pin from his jeans pocket. "This is the portkey we'll use to get there and back. Make sure you and Sirius are here by midnight. We don't want to be late."

"If I can pry him away from Daphne," retorted Regulus, grinning good-naturedly. "I'm on my way to Hogsmeade, to that candy store I used to love. I'll get us some snacks to take along. Here, before I forget." He handed one ticket each to Charlie, Harry, and Ginny, all of whom began to examine them with interest. "I already gave one to Sirius. I'd better get going, I'll see you later!"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The instant Severus entered his office, he knew something was afoot. The portraits stopped chatting, for one thing, and they all stared directly at him. Not typical. Usually they simply ignored his comings and goings. If he'd been in his normal frame of mind, he'd have asked if he had a milk mustache or had perhaps grown a hump. Since he avoided milk, as a rule, due to the associated cramping he'd developed of late, he was fairly sure the former was not valid.

Eyeing them all suspiciously, he slinked across the room to his desk and sat down. He muttered the unlocking spell under his breath, opened the top drawer, and stopped dead. They were gone. The place where they should be stood empty in silent testimony.

"W-what?" he stammered. A rising of blood caused a cacophonous pounding in his ears, accompanied by a desperate desire to vomit. He lifted his face, pale as a freshly bleached sheet; for once his deadpan expression was gone. "Where are my diaries?"

No one offered a reply. Phineas Black got up and vacated his portrait; several others followed suit.

Severus wheeled on Dumbledore's portrait, his frantic shock replaced by wrath. "Who took them, Albus? You must have seen!"

"Severus, calm down—"

_"I will not calm down!"_ Snape bellowed, slamming his fist on the desk as he rose. "Tell me who stole my property!"

"No."

Snape aimed his wand at the spot exactly midway between the pair of half-moon spectacles. As fear of death was not really an option here, it carried far less weight than it would with a live individual. "I'll torch you."

Dumbledore shrugged. "There are plenty of other portraits of me."

Lips twitching convulsively from the furious outrage, Snape whirled again. Not one former Headmaster remained in his frame to be questioned. He turned back to the maddening Dumbledore…..he'd get no answers from him. He crossed the room in two strides and ripped the portrait off the wall, then flung it as hard as he could across the room before storming out the door. The portrait slapped the wall, chipping a corner of the frame, and dropped to the floor where it wobbled unsteadily and landed face down on the cold stones.


	9. Hide and Seek

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 9 (Hide and Seek)

**June 25, 2000**

_The instant Severus entered his office, he knew something was afoot. The portraits stopped chatting, for one thing, and they all stared directly at him. Not typical. Usually they simply ignored his comings and goings. If he'd been in his normal frame of mind, he'd have asked if he had a milk mustache or had perhaps grown a hump. Since he avoided milk, as a rule, due to the associated cramping he'd developed of late, he was fairly sure the former was not valid._

_ Eyeing them all suspiciously, he slinked across the room to his desk and sat down. He muttered the unlocking spell under his breath, opened the top drawer, and stopped dead. They were gone. The place where they should be stood empty in silent testimony._

_ "W-what?" he stammered. A rising of blood caused a cacophonous pounding in his ears, accompanied by a desperate desire to vomit. He lifted his face, pale as a freshly bleached sheet; for once his deadpan expression was gone. "Where are my diaries?"_

Severus stormed out of his office and stomped down the stairs, then he hesitated, his hand on the rail, his shrewd mind whirling rapidly. He must think this through logically. The students were all gone from the school, therefore they could not be responsible. Most of the teachers had left yesterday on holiday, making them blameless. The journals had been in his desk this morning, and earlier this afternoon when Aline had gone home. The only staff who had access to the office were Filch, Poppy, Bayly, and Flitwick…and Hagrid, but the desk hadn't been smashed to smithereens, so no point in considering him.

Snape stepped down the last stair onto the floor. Dumbledore knew who the thief was, yet he refused to talk. Had Filch been the culprit, it was unlikely that Dumbledore would approve of his motives and defend him; that eliminated Filch as a suspect. Any of the remaining three could easily have gained access—but Flitwick, being the Charms instructor, was the most plausible perpetrator. Who else could have figured out how to unlock his desk?

His game plan loosely established, he veered left on his way to Ravenclaw Tower. He wondered idly if the little runt would have the gall to lie to his face when he confronted him. He'd never tortured anyone as tiny, as house-elf-like as Flitwick; it might prove rather interesting, though he supposed the diminutive professor wouldn't provide much entertainment, likely couldn't endure much at all. Severus sighed as he walked. No time for games, anyway; he wanted his possessions, and he wanted them _now_! If Flitwick gave them back without a fight, he just may let him live.

So focused was he on his quarry that he didn't hear the muffled sound of shoes from the other direction. He rounded a corner and bumped right into Bayly, who sucked in a breath and jumped backward. As was customary for the youth when he wasn't teaching, he wore no outer robe, and his shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows.

"Sorry, sir, I wasn't watching where I was going," Bayly apologized. He made to go around the Headmaster, who clamped a hand on his bicep and swung him back.

"Mr. Young," Severus crooned, drawing the youth in close to him. "I was looking for Professor Flitwick, but since you're here, we may as well conduct a brief interview. Shall we?"

"I-Interview?" Bayly stuttered, feeling the panic rise in a surge. Snape must have already discovered the missing books! He'd known the showdown was coming, just not so soon! "About what?"

_Stammering, shifty eyes, unnaturally high pitch to the voice. We have a winner!_ A cruel smile twisted the corner of Snape's mouth. This was almost too easy. A blind man could have made the connection! "I think we both know what I'm talking about. Where are they?"

"Where are what?" squeaked Bayly.

The next instant, Severus had slammed Bayly against the wall, his hand clenching the young man's throat. "Don't play games with me, boy! You stole my possessions. Where. Are. They?"

Coughing and wheezing, his hands prying ineffectually at the claw on his neck pinning him to the wall, Bayly choked out, "They're making you crazy! Don't you see it?"

Snape's free hand backhanded the youth quite hard, jerking his head and smacking it on the stones. "They belong to me. I want them back."

Wide-eyed, Bayly sucked in a quivering breath. His whole being reeked of betrayal and hurt. This, his surrogate father, was acting every bit the part of his _real_ father. He tried to avert his head to shield his eyes from the older man; Snape wrenched his head up by his hair.

"Let's just see if we can find where they are," mused the Headmaster, his black eyes boring like dead coals into Bayly's. The Legilimens' touch reached into his mind and began to root about; it took only a few seconds to touch upon the memory.

_They were in Hagrid's hut, rebuilt after being demolished by the Death Eaters. The place smelled of burnt firewood and wet dog. Bayly was handing a small sack to the giant._

_ "Hagrid, this is very important. These diaries are turning Professor Snape into—well, I don't know what. I only know it isn't good. I need you to take them and bury them."_

_ "Jus' my opinion, but wouldn' it be best if yeh jus' destroyed 'em?" asked the burly man._

_ "After that whole Black demon-amulet thing, I'm wary of destroying any magical object unless I know the proper way," explained Bayly with a shrug. It was better to hide them than to rue the day he'd tried to eradicate them, only to make a bigger mess._

_ Hagrid accepted the burlap bag, not even tempted to look inside. Books had never really interested him, and if they were __evil__ books, he surely wanted no part of them. "Any particular place yeh got in mind?"_

_ "Not on the school grounds—a student might come across them," Bayly answered, thinking hard._

_ "Hows about the Forbidden Forest?" suggested Hagrid._

_ "No, it's too dangerous for you…and there are centaurs in there. They might decide to read them." Bayly chewed his lip then looked up at Hagrid. "Take them to Aberforth Dumbledore's goat pen and bury them inside it. People never go in there, and goats can't read even if they dig them up. If anything, they'll eat them," he grinned._

_ "Right, then. I s'pose I'll get my shovel and be off," Hagrid said, thumping Bayly so hard on the back he dropped to his knees. "Sorry there, young feller."_

Snape pulled back out of Bayly's mind, his sadistic sneer growing as he pressed his wand into the lad's cheek. "You're so transparent. You want to be a goody two-shoes, trying to save the world? Take a look in the mirror, boy: you don't have it in you. You suck at being good, and you suck at being bad. Antonin was right, you're pathetic. I ought to _crucio_ the living hell out of you just for fun. However, I'm in a hurry. Consider yourself very lucky."

One violent fling sent Bayly spinning to the floor. Severus wheeled to stride away, and as he did so Bayly quietly raised his wand to stun him from behind. Without warning, Snape spun back with an eerie smirk and sent a _stupefy_ that crashed the boy against the wall, gasping for air. Once more the man ambled off, chuckling to himself as he rounded the bend.

With the red hand mark blaring on his cheek and his stomach aching from the hex, Bayly knelt staring into the empty hall after his mentor. His guts twisted for reasons having nothing to do with the spell, and for all the world he felt like bursting into tears. It made him ashamed to feel that way, especially when he had no time to wallow in self-pity or bother with irrational emotions.

He got up to retrace his steps whence he'd come. A few meters short of Ravenclaw Tower, he stopped at a grate in the wall, one that delivered warm air in the winter. Swinging it open, he reached deep into the dark tube, feeling around until his hand fell on the sack of diaries, which he snatched up and pulled out. Little clumps of dirt dropped to the floor, proof that Hagrid had done as he'd asked, he'd buried the books in Aberforth's pen. Unbeknownst to Hagrid, Bayly had then dug them up and brought them back to the castle.

Maybe he wasn't as much of a fool as his father—or as Snape—thought. He wasn't daft, he knew full well Severus would detect the items missing and demand to know where they were, would probably read his mind to find out…and he'd been right. He hadn't anticipated the brutality, though in retrospect he should have readied himself for it; his father would have done the same thing or worse if he'd stolen from him. Dolohov had done something, though, to help him this time: he'd taught him some Occlumency, which had allowed him to hide from Snape the fact that he'd retrieved the objects. He simply could not let them fall into the man's hands, not with the way he'd already been affected by them. Before the enraged Headmaster returned from his wild goose chase, he'd best make himself scarce unless he fancied the promised bout of Cruciatus!

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"How dare he hit you?" Gloria exploded, stunned and livid at the notion of Professor Snape mistreating her husband. "This is not acceptable! I don't care if you're his apprentice, he can't treat you this way! I'm telling Aline!"

"Gloria, listen to me. I provoked him, I took his belongings—"

"Bayly, stop! You've got to stop doing this, making excuses for people who hurt you."

Growing frantic, with no time to lose, Bayly took her by the shoulders, forcing eye contact. In as calm a voice as he could muster, he said, "Honey, listen. Something peculiar and dangerous is happening. He's going to be looking for me, and I need to know you're safe. Go to your family, and the lot of you hide where he can't find you—go to London, your mother has family there."

"But what about you?" pleaded his wife.

"I'm going to talk to Mr. Malfoy. He'll know what to do."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Awkward. Stilted. Uncomfortable. Pick an adjective; hey, pick two or three. Any and all of them rightly described the atmosphere at the Malfoy dinner table where Jorab and Wendolph sat across from Narcissa's sister Andromeda, all of them concentrating far too heavily on their plates.

Lucius put a bite of medium-rare steak in his mouth and pretended he was having a good time. Truth be told, he'd had more enjoyable evenings at select Death Eater meetings, though he suspected that voicing such an observation might upset his wife to the point of hysterical ranting and subsequent denial of conjugal rights. He had, after all, left it to her to find a 'suitable lady' for Rabby; he could hardly complain when she tried to do so.

He took a sip of wine to wash down the meat. On the other hand, what was Narcissa thinking? Andy? Mud—Muggleborn-lover, blood traitor, despised by Death Eaters…did that even remotely sound like the ideal love match for Rabastan Lestrange? The fact that he'd changed his looks and name didn't nullify the core of his beliefs. Not to mention that if Andy discovered his identity, she'd turn him in to the authorities in a heartbeat. And _that_ would beg the question of why Lucius was entertaining a known, presumed dead, surgically altered Death Eater! Just saying….

Dolph kicked him under the table and rolled his eyes before staring stoically back at his plate. That succinct exchange relayed verbatim, minus words, of course—which necessarily renders 'verbatim' wholly inaccurate, and suggests substituting the word 'precisely'—what Lucius had been ruminating on.

Nonetheless, they were all here, and as host he had the duty of advancing conversation. Clearing his throat, Lucius said, "Andromeda, did Jorab tell you he's almost a veterinarian? When are those tests, Jorab?"

Rab gave him a look that could chill ice. He'd been under the impression he and Dolph were coming to socialize with the Malfoys—not with the black sheep of the Black flock! "Next month, thank you for asking."

Narcissa piped up, "Andy will be joining the Hogwarts staff next term. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Congratulations, Mrs. Tonks," Dolph murmured before Rab had a chance to say something spiteful.

Andromeda looked up and smiled politely. "Thank you. Professor Snape has hired me as the new Muggle Studies teacher. The one they have now is moving to Newfoundland. I don't know why," she added to ward off a potential question. She swilled half a glass of her own wine.

Noting the way the wine was rapidly disappearing, Narcissa motioned to Cinchona to refill the glasses. This was not turning out well at all! What had she been thinking? At the time it seemed like a nice idea to let old acquaintances Rab and Andy socialise…now she saw it for what it was, a huge mistake. An ex-Death Eater with her sister? Andy would kill her if she found out! And Rabby…well, now that she remembered, he'd made no bones of the fact when they were in school that he considered Andromeda a 'mudblood-loving whore'. While Narcissa didn't share that assessment, this night was trouble waiting to happen if she let it go on.

"Excuse me, everyone," said Narcissa sweetly, willing herself not to chug a goblet or two of wine herself, "I get the feeling that Andy and you Goodman brothers are…how shall I say?...under the impression that I brought you together for a sort of date." She laughed in a delicate, high, tinkling way that always made Lucius hot. Best not to look at him right now. "It's natural to make that assumption, but you're only here as family and friends to share a meal and conversation. Please don't feel ill-at-ease."

Andromeda let out a tense breath and laughed a nervous chuckle. "That's a relief, Cissy—no offense, gentlemen! You're both engaging and attractive, I'm merely not ready to pursue any relationship so soon after my husband's passing. I thought Cissy was trying to set me up with one of you. I'm sorry if I've been terrible company."

Dolph inclined his head in acknowledgement. If anyone here understood losing a spouse, it was he, and yet he could not say so without inviting questions best left unanswered. "We completely empathise with you, Mrs. Tonks." It felt strange to call her that. All through school he'd known her as Andy, Bella's stubborn little sister who refused to adhere to proper codes of conduct.

Face set in a grim imitation of a smile, Rabby nodded along. "I'm glad to hear that as well, Narcissa. I'd be insulted to think you feel it necessary to treat me as a charity case, unable to find a woman on my own." He winced when Dolph kicked him under the table, yet his smile never wavered.

When no one was looking, Rab shot his brother a what-the-fuck-is-your-problem glare. That shoe hurt! And he'd noticed earlier when Dolph kicked Malfoy. Was he having spasms or something?

Sisidy padded into the room, straight to Lucius, where she clung to his pantleg while she whispered in his ear. His face lost what bland expression it carried, automatically blanking into the mask he wore against those not in his tiny circle of trusted confidantes.

"Excuse me, please," he said, rising to his feet. He laid his napkin beside his plate and left the room with Sisidy, only to return a few minutes later with the elf, Bayly, and a dirty, lumpy burlap sack. "Narcissa, will you make a floo call to Aline? Ask her to come here immediately."

Shocked, appalled, and somewhat frightened by the bruise on Bayly's face and the urgent, serious tone of her husband's voice, Narcissa nodded and hurried off. Lucius would explain later; this had to be very important.

Lucius turned to Andy, who like everyone else was standing and watching curiously. "Andromeda, are the Black blood wards still up around Black Manor?"

"Well, yes. I never got around to taking them down. Why?" she asked.

"I'd like you to take Narcissa, Aline, and the children there." To the elf he ordered, "Bring Draco, Khala, Ladon, and Teddy here, then go gather nappies and anything else they might require for a short stay." The elf popped out with a 'crack'.

"Lucius, what is this about?" asked Narcissa and Aline in unison as they strode into the dining room. Aline was brushing off a bit of soot from her clothing.

In answer, Malfoy held up the filthy bag. "In here are Voldemort's diaries. Bayly took them from Severus' office today. Severus subsequently confronted the boy and beat him, then threatened to use the Cruciatus on him before going off to search where he believes these books are."

The room lit with gasps of disbelief and anger, both at the knowledge of the dark lord's possessions in this room, as well as Snape's bizarre reaction and conduct toward the kid. Aline rushed over to him, her face horrified and contrite. "Bayly, did he hurt you? I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for you to take them, I was only telling you about them…"

"It's okay," the youth shrugged, letting her pet his head and hug him. "Better me than you."

Aline drew back, confused and a little defensive. "Severus would never harm me—or our children." Her hands caressed her seven-month bump instinctively.

"No, Severus wouldn't," agreed Lucius, laying a hand on her shoulder and looking over at Bayly. "He also wouldn't attack a boy he cares for like a son. But we're not entirely sure what—or who—we're dealing with here. In the past we've seen what Voldemort's diaries can do." He noted a quizzical-looking Draco entering carrying Khala; Ladon ran to his mother, and Teddy was quickly picked up and snuggled against Andy's chest. Before anyone could interrupt, he went on, "Severus isn't behaving like himself. I believe in his current state, he may lose control again, which means steering clear of him. Once all of you floo to Black Manor, Narcissa, I want you to charm the floo so no one can get in."

"What about you?" asked Narcissa.

"_No one_," Lucius reiterated solemnly. A slight tilt of his head and a furrowing of his brows gave Draco to understand: if Snape somehow took Lucius hostage, they could enter the home together. This way, blood wards and lack of a floo kept everyone out except Blacks.

"I'll make sure it's done, Father," Draco said. He lifted his chin a touch and nodded ever so slightly to let the man know he would protect the women and children if necessary. Even Aline, with her exemplary dueling skills, must protect her unborn children above all; she could not be in the line of fire.

"Good. Bayly, thank you for coming to me, you did the right thing. Go find your wife and her family," Lucius told him with a genial smile.

"I want to help," insisted the lad.

Lucius gestured at the Goodman brothers, who already looked primed (and a bit too enthusiastic, considering the circumstances) for a hunt. "We'll take care of things here. Gloria will be frantic with worry if you're not there, I imagine." He kissed Narcissa and the babies and shuttled them toward the fireplace. "Come on, people, let's move!"

When the last of them had gone, Lucius handed the bag of diaries to Sisidy. "This is crucial, Sisidy. Take this and hide it in a secluded place where wizards and witches can't get in. Make sure no one else knows about it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master Malfoy," Sisidy peeped, nodding her oversized head solemnly. She was a good, loyal elf; she would safeguard her family in whatever way she could.

"And do not open them or read them."

Sisidy blinked adoringly up at him. "Sisidy would plucks her eyes out from her head before readsing them, Master." She grasped the neck of the sack and disapparated.

Now only the trio of ex-Death Eaters remained. Dolph looked around as if sizing up the odds. "You want us to go get Nott and Marshal?"

Lucius shook his head as he tied back his hair out of his face. Nott had a family, it wouldn't be right to call him in; the way Severus was acting, he might shoot to kill if they fought him…Lucius had a queasy, uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that it would, indeed, come to that. He wouldn't mind having Marshal on hand right now, but there was no time to be galavanting about looking for him in the event he wasn't at home.

"I feel confident the three of us can handle him. No _A.K._s, no disfiguring curses—we only want to capture and disarm him, then figure out what the hell is going on."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

They apparated together, landing only a few meters apart on the side street in Hogsmeade near the Hog's Head tavern. Wands drawn but held choked up in the hand, by their sides, they marched on toward the Hog's Head, keeping a vigilant eye out in all directions. Save the lack of Death Eater masks—and the nature of their prey—it felt very much like the old days.

Silently they separated and flanked the pen behind the pub, where Snape was furiously tearing up holes with his wand. Already a massive amount of churned earth determined he'd been at it for some time. The goats, it seemed, had all run off through a charred hole blasted in the wooden fence. Singe marks on the stones in back of the pub signified to the men that Aberforth had probably protested the intrusion and been scared off by a violent hex or two thrown his way. Snape's lack of manners notwithstanding, Dumbledore would be unlikely to call the aurors on a war hero over some dirt dug up in his pen.

"_Accio_, diaries!" Snape thundered. Nothing happened. He threw a petulant spell that cracked another board in the fence. Evidently this was not the first time he'd tried the _accio_ command; one would think he'd realise the books were either too far away for magic to grasp them, or had been charmed against the command. "Damn that idiot, Hagrid! Probably didn't do as he was told!"

"Severus." Lucius stepped into sight and held up his left hand in greeting. The right clutched his wand at his leg. "What are you doing?"

Snape looked up at him—or more accurately, through him. "Why are you here? Did the brat tell you I slapped him for thievery?" His voice carried a heavy tone of sarcastic disdain.

"If you mean _Bayly_, yes, he did." Lucius took a few steps closer until he was next to the fence, casually observing the mess. His elegant, fine, forest green robes seemed absurdly out of place in a goat pen. "What has gotten into you? It isn't like you to act this way."

"Is it like me to act like _this_?" asked Severus. In one smooth, rapid move he raised his wand at Lucius and cast a yellow flaming curse that caused the other man to dive and land full-body in a pile of muck.

Instantly Dolph and Rab, positioned on either side of Malfoy, began shooting hexes at Severus. He deflected one into the underside of the roof, ripping off a tile. The other he flicked aside nonchalantly and fired back curses so fast that the brothers had difficulty parrying them and shooting at the same time. Lucius got up and joined the fray, and with the three of them attacking him, Snape made his way slowly the length of the pen, not missing a beat in turning aside curses while delivering his own. In fact, he kept the men literally jumping with the _avada_ _kedavra_s coming their way. Blazes lit up the gloomy, shaded area, as hexes bounced off the pub stones, along with chips of the establishment.

In the back of Lucius' mind, a twinge of fear lit as well. Snape was an excellent dueler, had been for many years, yet he'd never seen him take on a trio of expert Death Eaters at once with seemingly no trouble at all. Nor could he quite wrap his mind around the fact that his best friend was truly trying to kill him!

When he reached the edge, Snape disappeared around the corner of the building. His opponents ran in the other direction, expecting to confront the wizard in the street. He was nowhere to be seen. Damn it all, he'd probably disapparated! It would be a nightmare trying to find him now! Then, to everyone's astonishment, a smirking Regulus came strolling from the side of the pub, only to find three wands trained in his face.

Reg backed up, eyes wide, hands up. "Lucius, it's me! Snape's over there!"

Lucius didn't bother to answer. He simply grabbed Regulus by the scruff of the neck, his wand jammed into the boy's throat as he dragged him toward the place where he'd come out from behind the building. Dolph and Rab glimpsed around the corner, then proceeded with wands aimed at the wizard slumped on the ground. Dolph pushed him over onto his back with the toe of one shoe. Yep, that was Snape. Lucius let go of Regulus, who huffed indignantly and straightened his robes.

"You're _welcome_," Reg snipped in a hurt tone.

"What are you doing here?" Lucius demanded. He waved his wand over the youth to discern if a spell was present; there was none.

"I was coming from the candy store when I saw you arrive. I followed you, since you looked like something was up. When I saw Snape kicking your arses, I thought I'd help out. I mean, he was trying to murder you."

"Sorry, Regulus. I thought he was trying to trick us with a Glamour charm to look like you," Lucius explained, clapping the youth on the back. He accepted the wand that Regulus handed to him; he recognized it as Severus'. "You did very well…what we couldn't do," he admitted a little shamefacedly.

"What spell did you use?" asked Rab.

Regulus grinned and pointed at a large stone flecked with blood laying on the ground. "I call it 'Rock-to-the-Head'. I kind of got the drop on him, he didn't see me coming."

Dolph and Rab burst out laughing. Lucius was torn between that and disgust at the condition of his formerly impeccable, new outfit. His wand busily flew over his hands, face, and clothing, cleaning off the mud and goat droppings; then he repaired a rip and a missing button. Even when he was finished, he wore a scowl.

"It's a set of robes, Lucius. Get over it, " Dolph chided. "Then again, you're probably not over that sleeve of yours I ripped in Azkaban."

"Shut up," mutter Lucius sullenly. "It was a damned expensive sleeve, and one of my favorite pieces." He gazed down at Snape, aimed his wand, and _petrified_ the man, followed by a body-bind. Ropes snaked round the prone, frozen figure. "We can't leave him here, we need to take him to a secure location. Hogwarts. We'll take him to the castle until we decide what to do."

"We could put him in the dungeon," suggested Rab. Surely the others knew him well enough to know he meant it only as a security measure, not any savagery on his part.

"What about his office?" asked Regulus.

"That's not secure," said Dolph, shaking his head.

"But that's where Dumbledore is," countered the lad persistently. "He probably knows what's wrong and can tell us how to fix it."

As much as Lucius hated to admit it, the kid was right. Dumbledore may have been a thorn in his side all his life and a partisan pain in the ass in general, but he had been the most powerful wizard in the world. As far as Lucius could tell, he cared at least a little about Severus. It couldn't hurt to get his opinion. "Alright, Regulus and I will take Severus. You two had better go. We can't chance the old coot recognizing you or suspecting you of being Death Eaters. Thanks for your help—and sorry about dinner. Next time I'll make sure that Andy isn't there."

He grinned and the brothers did likewise. They nodded to him and Regulus before disapparating. Lucius took hold of Severus by the arm, apparated him to the Hogwarts gate, and proceeded in, levitating Snape ahead of him. Regulus caught up a moment later.

"Uh, Lucius, I hate to be a party-pooper, but I've got somewhere to be at midnight. This isn't going to take long, is it?"

Malfoy directed a withering glare his way as he marched on. "If I knew the solution, I wouldn't be coming here, would I? It takes as long as it takes." Still, he was a tiny bit curious; if Reg had a date, midnight was rather late for starting it. "Where are you going?"

"To a wrestling show in America," beamed the youth, checking his pocket watch for the fifth time. He had nearly four hours yet, no rush.

Lucius merely rolled his eyes and kept walking. He just _had_ to ask….


	10. Dealing With the Devil

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 10 (Dealing With the Devil)

**June 25, 2000**

Severus' _petrified_, bound body landed with a light thump on the floor of the Headmaster's office, a short space from his desk. Regulus bent down to cautiously check on his friend while Lucius eased a kink out of his arm. Levitating a substantial weight over a long distance sounded a lot less effortless than it turned out to be.

Off to the other side of the desk, Phineas Nigellus Black peeked around the edge of his frame. Yes, he was right, he'd heard a disturbance—but it wasn't Snape: there were two intruders! Arms crossed, he sauntered fully into his frame to observe them more closely, when he was struck by recognition.

"I remember you!" he boomed out into the hushed room, startling the two. "You're that Malfoy boy; I'd know that hair anywhere. You've spent a good deal of time in this office. Not surprising, I suppose, considering how irresponsible and flippant children are today."

Lucius looked up at him, his expression a mingling of incredulity and distaste. His lip curling upward slightly, he replied, "I'm hardly a _child_. I've been out of school for twenty-five years."

"Wow, you're that old?" Regulus interjected, eyebrows shooting up.

The youth was saved from a nasty comeback or nastier smack upside the head by Phineas moaning, "Oh, goody. You brought another of the saucy little juvenile delinquents with you. How charming. If he starts to drone on about his zits or girl woes, I may slit my own throat! And believe you me, that is not an easy thing for a portrait to accomplish."

Regulus got to his feet and faced the portrait, mimicking the man by crossing his arms and retorting, "When did I become a juvenile delinquent, _grandfather_?"

Phineas drew back with a start, mouth faintly agape, then leaned forward to peer harder at the lad. He dug a pair of spectacles from the pocket of his robes, put them on, and exclaimed, "Regulus, it's you! I haven't seen you round Grimmauld Place lately."

"That's because I moved a long time ago." Still facing his great-great-grandfather, he motioned to the inert form at his feet. "We need help with Snape."

"Yes," Lucius chimed in, drawling. "We irresponsible _boys_ have brought him here to look for Dumbledore. Severus has gone mad, we need some assistance."

"If he's deranged, St. Mungo's might be the place for him," said Phineas dispassionately. Honestly, didn't young people have any sense at all? He gestured to his left at the empty spot on the other wall. "That's where Albus' portrait should be. Last I saw of him, Snape was throwing a tantrum; he probably tore it down."

Malfoy and the young Black spent only a few moments searching the room before Regulus fetched the frame from where it had landed when Snape flung it away. "It's empty."

"You'd leave, too, if you were being mishandled," said Phineas, nodding to agree with himself.

While Reg set about re-hanging the frame, Lucius queried, "Would it be too much trouble for you to go find him?"

"Since you're asking nicely," Phineas responded, with only a tiny martyr-ish sigh. He walked out of his frame.

"Do you think he woke up yet?" asked Regulus, indicating Severus, who was lying on his back on the cold stones. "I hope I didn't hurt him."

No time like the present to find out. Lucius aimed his wand to reverse the Petrificus Totalus, leaving the bindings securely in place. Snape's eyes snapped open immediately, riveting Malfoy to the spot.

"Release me now, Lucius," he commanded, drawing out the 's' in a way that made Malfoy's skin crawl.

"I think not," replied Lucius, more than a little creeped out. He took a few paces backward. This was not the first time he'd heard his name spoken that way, though he'd never anticipated hearing it again. "Dumbledore will be coming soon—"

Severus laughed, a high cackle that made Lucius' heart skip a beat, then pound madly. "With friends like Dumbledore, who needs Death Eaters?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Regulus shouldered up beside the older wizard, a tad disconcerted not only at Snape's behaviour, but at Lucius' reaction. He was used to Lucius being the cool one, used to Lucius taking charge, and here Snape had obviously touched a raw nerve.

"Oh, let's take a history lesson," said Snape, locking eyes with the youth. Lucius rushed to grab the boy and whirl him away to avoid the possibility of a Legilimency connection. "Dumbledore dragged his feet for years, refusing to fight Grindelwald. How many thousands—millions, even—lost their lives because of it? Even as a Headmaster, where he ought not be able to cause much havoc, his lack of attention or caring brought more young people to Lord Voldemort than you know."

"How do _you_ know?" challenged Reg, turning back carefully in order not to look at Severus' eyes. "Is that diary talking to you like the horcrux one? In that case, before I forget, make sure to tell him I'm the one who stole his precious locket from the cave! It ended up killing me, but it was worth it."

A hard shove from one hand of Lucius sent him reeling off balance. "Regulus, do you think this is _really_ the time?"

"When else am I gonna get the chance to rub his face in it?" groused the youth.

"Would you like me to rub your face in the floor?" Lucius growled back.

"Spoil sport," Reg muttered under his breath. Lucius was back to his old self.

Sulking, he flung himself on top of the desk to wait for Phineas to return. When he noticed Lucius giving him a parental get-off-the-furniture glower, he merely smiled and crossed his legs, making himself as comfortable as he could with a quill jammed into his bum cheek. He wasn't going to move on general principles, pain be damned!

Lucius continued to glare until he decided he wasn't making an impression, which annoyed him immensely. Regulus was Narcissa's bratty cousin and Lucius' protégé—he was supposed to obey, for crying out loud! Fine, two could play that game. After making sure the ropes on the disturbingly-quiet Snape were tight, he rounded the desk to sit on the comfy leather swivel chair. From here, one good push would send the boy pitching forward off the desk…or he could try a subtler approach. A hint of an evil smile touched his lips. With Reg's back to him, the younger wizard didn't notice Malfoy's hand snaking forward. Lucius flicked the stem of the quill currently residing under Regulus' tush, ramming and jolting it further into Black's ass.

Regulus sat bolt upright, biting his lip to keep from yelping. Dark eyes narrowing, he twisted his head toward Lucius, who projected an air of absolute innocence. "Stop it!" snapped the lad.

"Stop what?" inquired Lucius, blond brows raised quizzically.

"You know what!"

"If I knew, I wouldn't have to ask, would I?" Malfoy crooned.

In reply, Regulus snatched the sharp quill from under his rear and threw it at Lucius, who with catlike instincts managed to duck in time to avoid the point, though a few drops of ink landed on his formerly goat-dropping-stained robes. Lucius' expression reverted from smug to extremely irritated. "Now I see why your own grandfather calls you a juvenile delinquent."

There was a rustling in the empty frame; Albus stepped into view and seated himself in the armchair. His eyes seemed less twinkly than searching, and they lit on Severus as he spoke. "Hello, Lucius. Regulus. Phineas tells me Severus has taken a turn for the worse."

"If you mean he's gone completely mental, yeah," Regulus said, still pouting a little.

"They're lying, Albus," came Snape's smooth, deep drawl that sounded every bit like the old Severus. "They attacked me, took my wand, and tied me up. I believe they intend some type of mischief." A trickle of dried blood on his temple may have attested to his version of events had he not been practically hidden on the floor, where Dumbledore had a poor view of him.

"He tried to slay me," Lucius stated, sorely tempted to kick Severus in the kidney for making him look bad. And for lying about him, and for trying to kill him…but mainly for making him look bad. "In his right mind, Severus would never do that. He also assaulted Bayly Young."

"Did he now?" At the new voice, all eyes turned to Phineas Black's portrait, where he stood beside an ancient-looking man with a monkey-like face. The second wizard, dressed in very old-fashioned robes, was the one who had spoken.

"Salazar Slytherin, how gracious of you to come visit," Dumbledore exclaimed, looking truly amazed. "I don't believe you've ever done so."

"Portraits run both ways, Dumbledore," Salazar responded levelly. "I've not noticed you ever making an effort to search me out. In fact, only Phineas and a few others bother."

"Yes, we're all anti-social," Lucius snipped impatiently. "Can we make our snide remarks later, gentlemen? We've got a serious problem here."

Salazar gazed upon Malfoy with a trace of disdain. "Impertinent one, aren't you?"

"What is it with you portraits? Have you all developed a dislike for the living?"

Dumbledore edged closer to the front of his portrait and gave a conspiratorial, apologetic shake of his head to Salazar. "I had a lot of trouble with this one when he was a student. Don't even get me started on the period when he was a Governor."

Fuming so hard he seemed fit to blow an artery, Lucius leaped up from the chair and exploded with, "_One_ of us—that would be me—is trying to help Severus! Would the two of you care to contribute?"

Regulus wisely refrained from noting the throbbing vein on the man's temple; he'd never noticed it before, and now didn't seem like an ideal time to bring it up. "We don't know what's wrong with Snape. We were hoping you could tell us."

Phineas nudged the man next to him as he jutted his chin outward toward Severus. "I think it has something to do with those Tom Riddle diaries we've talked about. That's why I brought you here. They make him lose track of time, and lately he's been exhibiting peculiar mood swings."

"I've noticed it as well," Dumbledore confirmed. "I'm at a loss as to what causes it. If I may ask, what do you know about those diaries, Salazar?"

Slytherin made no attempt to answer Albus' question. He stood pensively regarding the scene, wholly focused on the man lying on the floor. "Move him where I can properly see him."

Once more levitating Snape, Lucius moved him around to the head of the desk and settled him on the floor in front of Regulus, who steadfastly refused to give ground. Instead, he raised up his feet to sit cross-legged on top of the desk.

In parseltongue, Slytherin said, "_Severus, has Tom been communicating with you?"_

To the horrified astonishment of everyone present, Snape hissed back in snake-speak, "_Tell them to unhand me, Salazar."_

Gasps rang out, the only sound for several long moments. When the initial shock had passed, Salazar blinked back his surprise and uttered in a—fair to say—understated manner, "Well, this is unexpected."

"Unexpected?" echoed Regulus in a voice so strained it surely would cause harm to his vocal cords. "When people start talking in snake language, that's more than 'unexpected'!"

"What does it mean?" pressed Dumbledore.

Salazar shrugged, though he assiduously avoided looking directly at anyone. "I had a theory. I thought he might understand me if I spoke parseltongue, although I didn't anticipate this. It's worse than I thought. He…the diaries have begun to take over Snape."

Albus nodded as if confirming his own theory. He'd seen it all before with Ginny Weasley. It wouldn't be so difficult to remedy this situation after all. Just to be absolutely clear for all involved, he said, "So you're saying Severus is being possessed by Tom, through the diaries."

Salazar rolled his eyes heavenward. So like a Gryffindor to jump to that conclusion! If only it were so simple! His voice heavy with an air of gloom that permeated the place like a fog, he answered gravely, "No, Albus. Tom is dead, his spirit is gone. Severus is not being _possessed_ by Tom…..he's _becoming_ Tom."

The silence could not have been more absolute. Not a whisper, not a breath stirred to shatter the fragile, artificial calm. Lucius and Regulus gaped like simpletons, first at Salazar, then at Snape, then back to Salazar. This was not possible. Not only was it heinously unthinkable, it smacked of incredibly nauseating and more than a little frightening. Voldemort was dead, finally defeated—and now he was being recreated, formed by taking the body of another person? No, it could not be. It COULD NOT be.

At last, overcoming his dismay, Dumbledore spoke for everyone when he croaked, "How is this conceivable?"

"There are so many ancient spells—Dark spells—that are capable of a variety of things," said Slytherin, half-smiling to himself, almost forgetting why he was here and what he was discussing. "Why, I recall one—"

"Salazar, get to the point, if you please," Albus exhorted. "You may have forgotten that live people are under time constraints."

Looking offended, Salazar sniffed and clucked his tongue. This was so typical of a descendant of the Gryffindor House! Besides, he really didn't relish having to tell them; however, he had no choice, he may as well get it over with. "The charm Tom put on his diaries enabled him to go back and read his own thoughts, while at the same time conjuring a vision of the event. However, these were more than visions…how do I explain this? You're aware of fingerprints, how no two people have the same?"

He held up a wrinkled hand, palm side out, and pointed to the tip of one finger. Lucius, Regulus, and Phineas automatically started to study the fine lines on their own fingers, then looked up at the Founder.

"Yes, so I've been told," Dumbledore answered.

"Well, our brains are like that; no two are the same," said Salazar. "Our human memories fade and fail over time. The spell acted to literally place Tom's memories back into his head so he could experience them anew, as if they were happening all over again. In retrospect—judging by his career path, shall we say—I assume he wanted to relive his ascendance to power step by step, to savor it."

"Much like a pensieve, then," interjected Phineas, with Albus nodding along.

Salazar heaved a put-upon sigh. It was only natural to try to relate to what one knew, but it tended to get in the way of the truth. "In a broad sense, except he wasn't an outsider looking in, as occurs with a pensieve. He was there, taking part, experiencing every emotion, every detail that went along with each event. He could, in essence, live the scenes over and over in a much more powerful, vivid way than any mere ordinary memory can provide."

"Like a videocassette of a film?" asked Regulus. "Only being an actor inside it?" The rest looked askance at him, not quite sure what in blazes he was talking about.

Lucius raised his hand as if he were a boy in school again, which was how he felt around these old dead Headmasters. Realising what he was doing, he flushed and lowered it. "What has this got to do with Severus?"

"This potent charm was intended only for Tom, to fit the contours of his brain. When Snape read the books, the memories tried to fit themselves to _his_ brain—somewhat successfully, evidently. But since his brain pattern is different, the memories have been forcing his mind to physically change, to morph….bit by bit….into Tom." Salazar ended on a near whisper.

Again, a silence so palpable and pervasive one could almost reach out and touch it. Lucius gulped and looked helplessly at Regulus, whose own wide-eyed, heartrending glance and quivering lips only added to his misery. If Salazar was right—and he expressed no doubt that he was—Severus was no longer the man they knew. He had become a cross between their beloved friend and the madman they despised above all. And from the looks of things, if recent actions were any indication, he was leaning in the Voldemort direction.

Dumbledore shattered the unearthly quiet once more, his slow, calm voice acting as a sort of salve on the mental wounds. "Is there any way to reverse the damage that has been done to Severus?"

This time Salazar was not so quick to answer. Understanding what had taken place was one thing; trying to undo it was quite another. Realizing he'd played a pivotal role in this whole sordid affair—that was the real kicker. He'd invented that spell! How could he have foreseen such consequences when no one had ever used it before? And to make matters worse, if that were even a possibility, Severus had known Tom as Lord Voldemort, he'd been fully exposed to the evil of the grown man, which was surely far more vile than anything Tom might have been when he wrote the diaries. The mind-morphing would take that into consideration, would absorb all it could of Voldemort's traits into the altered part of the brain…the _Tom_ part.

"Lucius, this is all nonsense. I'm fine. Set me free," cajoled Severus in that waspish tone only Snape was capable of pulling off. He wiggled under the bonds. Lucius shot him a wavering look of pity before _petrifying_ him again. Now, more than ever, it was imperative to keep him confined, until they had a conclusive answer to this dilemma.

"Is there a way?" Regulus repeated to the portrait, his dark eyes pleading.

"Not that I'm aware of," Slytherin murmured, hanging his head. "I gave the spell to Tom. No one else was supposed to read the books, he guaranteed me that they were well guarded."

"So now you're going to wallow in self-pity because you feel guilty over making this mess?" said Phineas incredulously. "Salazar, you were one of the strongest, most intelligent wizards of your time. Albus, the same goes for you in your time. If the two of you put your heads together, I'm sure you'll figure out something!"

"And if we can't?" asked Salazar.

"That is not an option," Lucius growled ominously as he stepped up to the portrait to give his most searing glare. The turmoil and pain from learning his best friend was gone, for all intents and purposes, rendered his glare more a fierce look of hatred. His naturally steady voice trembled from emotion. "I want my friend back. You f—ked up; you fix it."

He spun on his heel and made for the exit, sudden tears he refused to shed in public stinging his eyes. "Regulus, stay here until I get back. I have to make a fire call to Aline." He ran down the stairs, then flopped heavily like a rag doll on the final step, his elbows propped on his knees, his head resting in his hands. It was happening all over again. When he'd thought Severus was dead after the Final Battle at Hogwarts, it had crushed his soul to lose the man he loved as his brother. This time, he was losing his best friend, only to have him replaced by evil, and there was not a damned thing he could do about it. Why hadn't anyone stopped it earlier? Why hadn't they seen?

Lucius drew in a shaky breath; he would not break down. Severus wasn't gone yet. Voldemort may have gained a foothold, but Snape was still in there. Was there to be a war between the opposing forces? And if so, would Severus' indomitable, stubborn spirit prevail? His brain had been warped, physically altered…who could undo that? How much damage had been done? No, he must think positively. Where there's life, there's hope, and all that. Right? They'd find a way. Hell, they'd brought Narcissa back through the Veil and restored life to Regulus and Sirius—with a whole lot of help from Severus. Compared to that, what was accomplishing one more impossible task? Lucius could not—would not—give up on him.

He got up, took a few deep, cleansing breaths, and let them out slowly. He had to find a fireplace to talk to Aline.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Aline, wait," Narcissa implored, hanging onto the witch's arm. "If you floo out, you won't be able to come back. The floo is charmed so nobody can get in. Remember?"

"I don't care," Aline responded flatly. She was conscious of not only Narcissa, but Andromeda and Draco watching her. She felt their sympathetic gazes wash over her as if Severus were dead, and experienced a surge of fury. He wasn't dead, he was only injured! Even if she couldn't help him, she needed to be there, to see him, to speak to him, to let him know she was on his side. "Narcissa, if positions were reversed and Lucius were the one ravaged by those diaries, could I keep you from his side?"

Narcissa hesitated only a fraction of a second, then dropped her hand and stepped aside. "As soon as you find out anything, send us word."

Aline nodded. Less than a minute later, she was walking out of the fireplace in the quarters Severus had used before their wedding, before they moved to the Prince estate. If her hunch was correct, Lucius had used this hearth; it was the closest one to her husband's office, where he was being held. Another shudder ran through her to think of Severus' condition as Lucius had explained it. What would she find? Would she even recognize him? A torrent of frightened, worried sobs threatened to burst forth, yet she held them back. There would be time later for crying; it would help no one for Severus to see her like that.

As quickly as a woman approaching the eighth month of pregnancy was able, she hurried from the room. There, down the corridor, she spied the retreating form of Lucius. She called to him and he wheeled so fast, wand out, that it startled her. It startled her even more to note her own wand had somehow made its way into her hand, at ready. At least her reflexes remained!

Malfoy was striding toward her, looking a tad peeved, but he'd put his wand away. "Aline, I told you not to come." Nonetheless, he embraced her warmly.

"I don't do well taking orders," she answered candidly. Surely Severus had told his friend that by now! She started to head for the office, and added stubbornly, "I'm not afraid of Severus. He needs me, and I need him."

_No use arguing with a woman, especially a pregnant one_, Lucius mused. Life with Narcissa had taught him that much. "Come on, then. We can't keep him here, we must take him to a protected location where he can't apparate away or escape." Lucius paused, his shoes clicking in the hallway the only sound. He'd told her everything else, he may as well tell her the rest…like she wouldn't find out on her own with that clairvoyance. "Until we can fix him, we're going to have to stand guard over him. I've already owled my companions to meet me at the old castle." He had no doubt she knew what castle he meant, the rubble heap where Voldemort had utilised as his Headquarters for a few years.

"You've certainly thought this through," she observed, waddling as fast as she could to keep up with his longer strides.

Lucius inclined his head by way of acknowledgement. A wry grin touched the corners of his mouth. "In my former line of work, it was an asset to think on one's feet. I became quite adept at it." Right before they mounted the stairs to the office, Lucius held back, blocking the way and facing the woman. "Please don't freak out when you see Severus. He's _petrified_… when we allow him to speak, he may say terrible things to you like he did to Bayly. I want you to be prepared."

Aline attempted a smile. When Malfoy had told her Tom Riddle was in Severus' head, she assumed things would be different. "I'll pretend it's Severus when we first met. He was a total jackass then."

A chuckle escaped Lucius. Truer words were never spoken! Snape did have an abrasive aspect to him. Solemnly he said, "He's very lucky to have you, Aline. And he knows he is. I hope somehow you can get through to him."

"I'll try, believe me," she answered.

"There you are!" Regulus called from the top of the winding staircase. "You were gone a long time, I was starting to worry. Dumbledore and the others left to talk or something." Implied in there was 'and I'm left all alone with this nutcase who used to be my friend'.

Aline and Lucius traipsed up the steps, where Lucius paused once more to explain to the lad the plans he had for Snape. Aline elbowed past the men and ran to kneel beside the prone wizard. She stroked his hair and bent down to kiss his frozen lips. A strong desire to weep welled up, but was overtaken by surprise. Severus looked the same as always, he didn't seem helpless or terrifying as she'd expected. He looked kind of…peevish.

A wave of her wand released Snape from the _Petrificus Totalus_. "Are you alright, honey? I'm sorry they're keeping you like this."

"Aline, they've gone berserk. See what they're doing to me?" he whispered feverishly. "Reverse the charm, get these ropes off."

The witch chewed thoughtfully on her lip, regarding her husband. She wanted to believe him, but Lucius and Regulus had no reason to lie about something like this. And this was far from the first indication she'd had that the diaries were impairing the man—everyone noticed. Her delicate hand continued to caress his cheek. "I can't let you go. We're going to figure out how to heal you, but until—"

"Yes, let's play along with the crowd," Snape interrupted in a harsh, calculating tone. "Little Aline wants to pretend she's normal. We know better, don't we? You—"

"Don't even go there," Aline growled in his ear, wholly unintimidated. "I know Severus inside and out, and I have seen how he's changed over the past couple of months. You can't fool me, and you can't chase me away. I'm going to get Severus back. That's a promise. So save your stupid threats and insults for somebody who cares what you think!"

She lumbered to her feet and turned to see Lucius and Regulus gazing at her in admiration. "Well said," Lucius murmured, applauding lightly. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was that Aline hadn't fallen apart at a time he was barely holding himself together, that she would prove to be a strong ally when he most needed one. Or maybe that she _did_ have that clairvoyance, maybe she knew something he didn't… To Regulus he said, "Don't you have some wrestling event to attend?"

The youth shrugged and ducked his head. From the red-rimmed look of his eyes, it appeared he'd been crying earlier. "I don't know that I'm rightly in the mood."

"Go ahead, Reg," Aline encouraged him. She patted his arm, her voice softening. "It's been a bad shock, but there isn't anything you can do just now. It doesn't mean you don't care about Severus if you enjoy yourself. I know you care, and so does he. Go, have a good time." She smiled a little sadly as she added, "We may not have a lot of chances for that until Severus is better."

Regulus looked to Lucius, who nodded. "When you get back, check in with me at the manor or the old castle. I'll need to assign you sentry duty."


	11. Good Boys

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 11 (Good Boys)

The old castle located in Scotland looked less like a castle and more like a few half-demolished walls, whose remaining stones had been strewn across half an acre as if a giant baby had slapped down his blocks. In short, it was a dump, one that would not excite the interest of muggle tourists, were any of them to stray this far off the beaten path. For this reason alone, it had been chosen as Lord Voldemort's new hideout when he'd moved operations from Florida.

Theodore Nott apparated in the expansive, flat field in front of the dilapidated structure. He'd been here only a couple of times before, when Marshal had been training him with axes and weapons. He'd derived a lot of pleasure from it; he missed those times. However, his parents clearly objected to the whole thing, and he'd really prefer not to piss them off or make them worry. Just being here to help guard Snape or Riddle or whoever the hell he was now had caused a stream of cautionary lectures from his mother, and solemn advice from his father that sent shivers up his spine.

He passed under the crumbling arch that looked set to fall at any moment. Inside, most of the magic that had transformed the place into three or four large, cozy rooms had worn off…or perhaps had gone when Voldemort died. Theo honestly didn't know, he'd never been inside, though he'd listened to his dad describe how it used to be with the fireplaces and kitchen area, and even a bedroom for the dark lord—not likely anyone but Bellatrix got to see that! Whatever the case, it was now cold and bare in there, and felt a little damp even in the early July heat.

Turning left at the entrance, as instructed, Theo walked into a spacious, cave-like room that had been utilized as the Death Eaters' meeting spot. He stopped in his tracks; most of the room was taken up by a cage, a cell whose iron bars lined all four walls from floor to ceiling, sunk deep into the stone. There was not even a door.

Inside the cell, a rock slab covered by a mattress and bedding served as a bed. On the opposite side, a great boulder had been sliced off to create a sort of table top, which was loaded with stacks and stacks of books. Beside it, Professor Snape sat perched on a throne like a king; Theo's eyes widened even more at the incongruity.

"You're late, son," said Nott, approaching the youth. He noticed the boy gawking at Snape on the throne and smiled to himself. Years back, they'd all been dismayed and secretly amused when the dark lord had brought in the throne for himself. Obviously, no one had had the guts to say a word to Voldemort about it.

"Sorry, Dad. I had to work late on a photo shoot," Theo murmured, tearing his eyes from the searing black orbs glaring his way. He turned his back to Snape, unable to escape the feel of the glower piercing him like an arrow. "Has Mr. Malfoy said how long this will go on?"

"No word yet," answered his father, who casually reclined in an armchair he'd transfigured from a broken wooden chair. He gestured toward another seat. "You may as well sit, it's going to be a long evening."

"Does he talk to you?" Theo whispered, jerking his head at Severus as if there were any doubt to whom he referred.

"So far he hasn't, he just keeps giving that Snape scowl," grinned Nott. How often he'd witnessed that look when they attended school together, and later as adults—primarily at Death Eater meetings. "Makes me think he's still in there somewhere."

Theo resisted the urge to sneak a peek at his old teacher. He was well-acquainted with the scowl, as was anyone who'd ever taken Professor Snape's class…or ever met him. If for no other reason than this was Jacinta's father, he desperately hoped Mr. Malfoy or Dumbledore or _somebody_ would come up with a cure. Soon.

As if reading his mind, Nott asked, "How is Jacinta holding up?"

"Not well," admitted the lad, finally settling into a hard wooden chair. "She adores Snape as much as she does Mr. Mulciber. If he can't be healed…" He shook his head and sighed, not bothering to finish.

"Don't underestimate Lucius Malfoy, Theo. He's wily as a snake and clever as they come. He'll sort this out." There was a period of comfortable silence, during which Nott glanced over at the motionless Severus a few times. Abruptly he said, "I've asked Jack to join us in guarding Snape. Since his dad was a Death Eater, he knows about this place anyway, and he agreed to help."

Theo nodded. What was there to say? Theo's father and Jack Mulciber had been best friends from infancy. Of course he'd agree. Not to mention Jack was the son of a vicious Death Eater who'd taught him the hard way how to duel; while he'd never enlisted himself, he'd probably learned more dark spells than many of Voldemort's followers. And Jack had known Snape since they were boys in school—and he was Jacinta's dad. He had an emotional stake in this. If anyone would make sure no harm came to the professor, would prevent him from escaping before he was well, it was Jack. And most assuredly it wouldn't hurt to have more bodies on hand to spread the burden.

"He won't technically be with _us_," Nott prattled on when he received no comment from his son. "He'll probably be assigned to one of the other boys." Meaning, of course, Draco, Regulus, or Bayly.

"We're not boys, Dad," Theo protested halfheartedly. For crying out loud, he was nearly twenty!

"Compared to us, you are." Nott leaned back and stretched out his legs. He wouldn't have his son here at all, except Lucius had directed them to take shifts in pairs. That way, even if one sentry was occupied or distracted, another was on hand. The first few days had been hell with only Malfoy, Marshal, the Goodmans, and himself. They'd all been exhausted, and had decided new blood was needed. They could not afford to make a mistake where another Voldemort-in-training was concerned, especially if that one happened to be Severus Snape, who was powerful and sneaky in his own right. "Why don't you tell me some stories from work? It'll help to pass the time."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Sitting on his mother's lap, Ladon reached his stubby arms up and out to bang on the black and white pushy-things attached to the big black music monster. He thought they might be teeth, he wasn't sure, and sometimes he felt frightened that it would bite him. The monster growled and tinkled as he tickled its scales. Mama and Fa'er weren't afraid, they could make the creature sing beautiful songs; all he could do was annoy it. Even so, it was great fun, and Mama kissed him and told him how proud she was of him. Mama would always protect him.

"How is my big boy doing?" asked Lucius from the doorway, where he had been leaning and watching his wife and son through adoring eyes.

Narcissa looked up and smiled. "He's a natural, of course. Like his father."

Ladon watched his sire stroll across the room. Fa'er was so strong, so smart, so—everything Ladon wanted to be. And he loved how Fa'er looked at Mama, like he was doing now, with such love and—even though his young mind couldn't place the term—devotion.

"Fa'er, come play," Ladon insisted, walloping the keys mercilessly as an invitation. Anyone but a doting parent would have summarily ruled out 'prodigy'.

Lucius obligingly slid onto the bench next to his wife, bent over to kiss his son's head, and wrapped his left arm around Narcissa's waist. With his right hand, he lightly stroked the keys, coaxing a lilting tune born of years of practice while Narcissa accompanied him, her arms closing around the child on her lap. Neither of them required sheet music, nor even to look at the keys; their eyes locked over the head of the little boy enthralled by the enchanting sounds emanating from the monster.

"Pretty!" he squealed, clapping excitedly, though he felt very confined at the moment squashed between the piano, his mother, and his father crowding against them both.

Narcissa squeezed her tot in an enormous, lasting embrace as she leaned in to Lucius' kiss. Thus it was that Draco came across his parents. All his life he'd seen them behaving in this manner, and truth be told he rather liked it. It siphoned the joy from his whole outlook on life when they acted any other way, which only occurred if they were upset…like when the dark lord had been here. However, he wouldn't be a normal young man if he didn't give them some ribbing over it, and they all understood his teasing was just that. It was preferable to having fighting brutes or cold fish for parents like some people had to deal with.

Feigning embarrassment, rolling his eyes dramatically for Astoria's benefit, he moaned, "Get a room."

Astoria giggled and snuggled against his arm. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. Sorry to interrupt."

"Hello, Astoria," Narcissa answered as she rose from the bench, lifting Ladon up and setting him onto the floor. "We were just giving Ladon his first piano lesson…sort of."

"Astoria, how lovely to see you," Lucius greeted her. He crossed his legs and nonchalantly draped his folded hands over his lap.

As a child, Draco had been too innocent to notice or understand the power a woman had to affect a man; now he understood it all too well. Smirking furiously, Draco pinched his lips tight to keep from saying anything that could be construed as cheeky and get him smacked later. He had to literally bite his tongue to keep from asking his father why he was breeching etiquette by not rising to greet his guest. All things considered, he was probably better off if Lucius didn't rise, as it would embarrass the lot of them.

He picked up the toddler, who'd wandered over to attach himself to his sibling's leg. "Wow, Brax, you're getting big. I'm liable to hurt myself carrying you."

Ladon beamed a smile at his beloved brother, then turned his attention to playing with Astoria's long, dark hair. It was pretty and soft and shiny like Mama's, only a different color. His tiny fingers worked their way clear through to the poor girl's scalp. Astoria smiled politely, though her eyes held an air of apprehension…and maybe a bit of pain.

Draco ignored the child's ministrations. He was only glad he wasn't the recipient this time around. "Tori and I are going to church. I thought we should let you know."

There was an uneasy pause while Narcissa and Lucius exchanged puzzled glances. In a halting, hesitant voice Narcissa asked, "Who died?"

"No one," said Astoria, looking as puzzled as the couple.

"Is there a wedding to which we haven't been invited?" Lucius queried. Since Voldemort's death, he'd worked very hard to repair his image in the community. The very notion of the Malfoys being shunned was most appalling and ghastly.

"No, Father," Draco replied drolly. "Astoria goes to church a lot. Some people attend just because they want to."

If he was reading the responding glower correctly, and he was convinced that he was, his father was warning him not to get smart. Seriously, how could he not? Father set himself up for it.

Narcissa lifted her chin a bit. "Oh, well…have a good time."

"It's church, honey. I'm not sure they're allowed to have a good time." Lucius smirked at his son, stood up, and took a few paces over to extract the tiny Malfoy from Draco. Ladon grunted his displeasure at being forced to let go of Astoria's hair, and he deliberately clenched on all the tighter, pulling the girl's dark tresses and making her wince.

"Mother, may I speak to you?" asked Draco even as he pulled her toward the exit of the room where Astoria was trying to disentangle the child's hands from her locks. "I'll be right back, Tori." He rushed Narcissa into the parlour next door and quickly slid closed the wide double doors.

"Draco, what is going on?" demanded his mother. "You can't leave Astoria over there to be mauled by your adorable yet dangerous brother."

"I think I'm in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" queried the woman warily. She glanced involuntarily over her shoulder to make sure Lucius hadn't followed them.

Draco sighed and began pacing to and fro on the rug. "This is all Sirius' fault! He proposed to Daphne last night!"

"Did he?" This was an interesting tidbit, and she was the first to know! "Did she accept?"

"I don't know—I mean, she said she'd think about it. That's not the point, Mother. Thanks to that idiot Gryffindor and his impulsiveness, now I think Astoria expects _me_ to propose!" exclaimed Draco.

"And?"

"How can I?" Draco reversed his pacing and started to weave around the furniture in his anxiety. "We've only been together for ten months. I postponed going to the Ukraine because of Uncle Severus, but Tori probably thinks I did it for her. She wants me to go with her today and pray about our future!" His voice caught in his throat and ended with a sick squeak.

Narcissa neared her son, took his hand, and forced him to stop moving. Solemnly she asked, "Do you love her?"

At first Draco was reluctant to reply. A response of 'yes' would be met with the challenge of 'why don't you want to marry her?' An answer of 'no' would be a bald-faced lie. He'd never been happier than when he was folded in Tori's arms, when he snogged her until she laughingly complained of his meager whiskers burning her cheeks, when they danced to silent music only they shared. He'd never felt so strong and so weak at the same time, and been grateful for the sentiments.

At last he said plainly, "Yes, Mother, I do. But it isn't that simple. I want to go train with the dragons; she doesn't understand why, and I can't adequately explain it. It isn't fair to ask her to marry me, and then leave."

"Obviously you haven't talked to her about this." Narcissa gestured to the adjoining room where Lucius was. "Your father and I don't always agree, but we share what we think and feel and care about. You can't assume you already know what Astoria is thinking, and if you want her to understand you, you must try your best to make it so."  
"What should I do? What if she expects me to propose?" Draco pleaded.

"I can't tell you how to run your relationship, son," Narcissa cooed. She pressed her boy in her arms in a good, old-fashioned bear hug, then stepped back to look him in the eye. "I can only advise you to be honest with Astoria and with yourself, and to do what you believe is right. If you resent your own decision, everyone will suffer for it. Come on, they're waiting for us."

She led him back to the music room, where Ladon was splayed on the floor, wriggling himself beneath the leather divan and grasping at something, and Lucius was chatting with Astoria.

"Draco, we're going to be late," Astoria said. She hadn't ceased raking her fingers through her hair, and now she regretted not taking Mr. Malfoy up on his offer to charm it for her. His own mane always looked so lush and gorgeous!

As they were leaving, Ladon pushed out from under the divan and flopped onto his bum to stare at their retreating backs. "Day-co and Tori go bye-bye?"

"Yes, my boy, they're going bye-bye," Lucius confirmed. His grey eyes squinted in bemusement; he reached down to pluck a shiny object from his son's hand, and rolled it over a few times in his palm before intoning, "Narcissa, you really must watch your child more closely. I believe he has stolen Astoria's earring."

"_My_ child?" Narcissa repeated with a delicate lift of one brow. She ambled over to examine the broken, fine chain of white gold ending in a small ruby droplet. There was no post, no hook to loop it through the ear. "Astoria wasn't wearing these, dear. But this looks familiar."

Her brows furrowed in thought until Ladon slapped impatiently at her leg with one hand and reached up at her with the other. "Mine!"

"No, sweetie, it's not yours," Narcissa said distractedly. Where had she seen this before? It was on the tip of her brain.

"_Mine!_" insisted the toddler, adding a disgruntled stamp of his little foot. His lips began to quiver. It wasn't fair! Every time he found something new and fun to play with, the big people took it from him! Collapsing back onto his rear end, he burst into wails.

Lucius knelt down beside the boy to calm him, only to have Ladon jerk away and sob all the harder. "It's just a bit of jewelry," he soothed. A sudden thought entered his mind; he reached into his vest and withdrew his pocket watch, clicked it open, and held it out to the lad.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

Intrigued, Ladon sniffled loudly, but he crawled up near to watch the skinny black stick gliding around the numbers. He poked at it with one finger, tracing its path along the glass. He shut the watch and snapped it open again by pushing the button his father indicated for him. A small smile began to replace the sadness, and he looked up into Lucius' face both inquisitively and doubtfully as if to ask _Is this for me?_

The man dabbed his handkerchief over the boy's face to dry his tears, then nodded and said, "It's yours. You must play nicely with it." He picked up the now-elated child, who clutched his treasure in both hands. Ruefully he wondered how long before this expensive clock would become a pile of useless junk. If this followed the typical pattern, he was betting on three hours or less. In any case he hadn't given him one of the heirloom watches; that was some consolation.

"Lucius, I know where I've seen this!" Narcissa tore out of the room with Lucius, carrying their son, on her heels. She practically dashed into the main sitting room, to the portrait of an attractive blond woman in her late twenties, Lucius' mother, and held up the earring in front of it. It matched exactly the ones worn by the witch in the portrait.

"My earring!" Thalia exclaimed, extending her hand as if to reach out of her frame. "Where did you ever find it?"

"Ladon found it under the divan in the music room," Narcissa answered. She stroked the tot's blond head. "I don't understand: the elves have cleaned this manor hundreds of times since you died…how could it still be there?"

By now Abraxas had come over from his frame—one of the few times he was seen in his own!—and commenced to studying the broken jewelry. "It probably got lodged in the divan many years ago, and just worked its way all the way down until it fell out."

"We used to enjoy making love there," Thalia gushed, gazing lovingly at her husband. Then, realizing the nature of her audience, she actually blushed. Until now, she didn't know a portrait could do that. "I probably shouldn't have said that, should I?"

"Probably not," Lucius agreed in a clipped tone, his cheeks tinged pink at the knowledge of his parents' activity. He'd certainly never look at the divan in the same way. He may have to get rid of it altogether! Merlin's ghost, _he and Narcissa_ had made love there!

"Grow up, Lucius," chided Abraxas. "How do you think you were born?"

"_I_ should grow up? You're the one who couldn't bear to broach sexual topics when you were alive—"

"Lucius!" Narcissa said firmly, wiggling the earring in front of his face.

Grudgingly he desisted from what was no doubt headed toward a fruitless, silly argument. "Mother, I don't recall ever seeing its match. Did you throw it away?"

"Of course not!" gasped Thalia. From her affronted pose, one might swear her son had asked her if she'd ever committed acts of mass murder. "They were the first gift Brax ever gave me, shortly after we'd started courting. I loved those earrings."

"I buried the remaining one with you, in your hand," Abraxas said softly. His finger gently caressed her temple and ran along the side of her face. "I thought you'd want to keep it."

"Thank you, love," Thalia responded quietly.

Not thrilled at the prospect of watching his parents break into a snogfest right there in front of him, Lucius turned to Narcissa. "What was so important that Draco had to drag you away from the room?"

Narcissa shrugged as she lifted Ladon into her arms. "Oh, that. He said he may propose to Astoria." She headed off for the stairs to check on Khala, leaving her stunned husband gawking after her.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It was quiet—too quiet. As a rule, Marshal was a chatterbox, but that only worked if the one he was speaking to deigned to answer in more than monosyllables. Talking to himself was—well, _talking to himself_. That was no fun. Snape sat in his cell alternately glaring hatefully at his captors and perusing the books Lucius had left in the cage with him, none of them magically-oriented in any way. In fact, Marshal was pretty sure a lot of them looked to be muggle tripe.

The kid who'd been assigned to stand guard with him had spent the last two hours huddled on a chair, knees drawn up to his chest (presumably for warmth, though the kid could conjure a warming spell if that were the case), looking like a lost waif. And basically ignoring Marshal, who didn't care for that one iota.

"Don't you ever talk?" Marshal said abruptly. He pushed himself up from the wall where he'd been leaning, observing.

Bayly turned his head to look at the man. "Yeah. Why?"

"You're not exactly chattin' me up, Nancy-boy," replied the other in his oh-so-subtle ploy to create a conversation—or a fight. Either one would do. At least it wouldn't be so bloody boring! "You think you're too good for me?"

"I don't even know you, and I'm not a Nancy-boy," replied Bayly evenly, consciously willing himself not to get sucked into this. He'd met the wizard once, maybe twice, and only along with all the other ex-Death Eater friends of Mr. Malfoy. It wasn't like they'd become bosom buddies. Besides, he had a lot on his mind, he wasn't in the mood for idle chatter. "We're supposed to be watching Professor Snape, not calling names."

"You're a smug little wanker, aren't you?" Marshal seethed, getting right up to Bayly's ear. "You think because Malfoy is your protector that you can run roughshod over the rest of us?" Yeah, that didn't make sense even to _Marshal_. He really ought to _think_ before speaking. Nonetheless, he soldiered on trying to get a rise out of the boy. "I can see why Dolohov used to kick off on your ass—"

"Shut up! Just shut it!" Bayly barked suddenly, rounding on the older man with wand drawn, aimed at his face. Even in his fury it gave him a smidgen of satisfaction to see Wallace raise his arms and back off. "I'm not a nance or a wanker! I've got a beautiful wife who loves me, which is more than you can say, so kiss my arse, you obnoxious son of a bitch! And keep your gob shut about my father!" He shoved his wand back into its holster on his wrist and turned away.

"Least I got you to talk," Marshal grinned, gloating to himself. "But I'm bored now. I'm going outside to get some air. Scream like a girl if you need me." He sauntered out, hoping the kid didn't have enough Dolohov in him to blast him in the back. That would be unpleasant.

Bayly waited a full minute to ensure the man had gone; he ran to the doorway to look, just in case, then returned wearing a smug smile that could rightfully have earned Marshal's earlier insult. He cast a silencing charm over the area, then came up to within a meter of the cell bars. "Hello, Voldemort. Yes, I know you don't like us to say your name. How about if I call you 'Tommy'? You'd like that, yeah?"

"Filthy little brat," Severus hissed as he rose to his full height and slammed shut the book he'd been pretending to read.

"I thought Marshal would never leave. And then I wouldn't get to show you _these_." Bayly produced four small journals from a pocket of his robes, fanning them in his hands to allow a better view. The desperate expression that flashed across Snape's face didn't escape him, nor the hungry glint in the wizard's fathomless eyes. He recognized them alright.

"_Accio_, diaries!" Snape commanded, hand outstretched to catch them.

Nothing happened.

"Didn't anyone tell you? Mr. Malfoy's house elf used her magic to charm the space on either side of the bars. Our magic doesn't work there." Bayly opened one of the books, prompting Snape to lunge at the bars, clawing one arm between them. "Maybe I ought to read these so I can be like you. Then I could hurt you and not care. You deserve it."

"Where did you get them? Lucius claimed to have hidden them away!" Snape growled.

Bayly shrugged one shoulder and gave a taunting grin. "I gave him a sack of books; he didn't look inside."

Snape eased away from the bars, his eyes never leaving the young man, who carefully guarded his own eyes from any hint of Legilimency. As Severus paced slowly up and down, he crooned, "So, you're not the meek sheep you pretend to be. It takes a good deal of gall to brazenly lie to Malfoy, the man taking you under his wing. I could use a clever boy at my right hand when I make my rise to—"

"Dictatorship?" Bayly supplied.

"You would not dare such insolence if I were free, if I had my wand!"

Bayly's head bobbed in acknowledgement. That was true enough. He wouldn't dare it with Snape, let alone Voldemort. He smirked and said, "But you're not free, and you don't have it. There is something I want to give you, though." With one smooth move forward, he pitched one of the diaries into the cell; it rolled on edge, tipped over, and lay still. The other three followed in quick succession, clunking on the stone floor.

Severus snatched up the first, hurrying to grab them all before the brat had a chance to change his mind. He scurried to the rock table to carefully lay them behind the other books so no one from the outside could see them. If anyone found out he had them, they'd take them away. Cautiously he opened one of them to ascertain whether he'd been duped; immediately one of his old memories flooded his brain like an opiate, and an involuntary smile escaped him. He looked up curiously. Why had Young returned his possessions to him? Evidently it was not from altruism.

Noting the look, Bayly dropped his smirk and glared back at the wizard. "What do I care if you have them? You're already a lost cause, you've already taken Professor Snape from me. Now when they finally decide to kill you, it'll be all _you_, Tommy. And I'll be glad."

He reversed the silencing charm and went back to his chair to brood. Severus seated himself on the throne, a diary nestled inside a larger volume of poetry, and began to read. Even from where Bayly sat, he sensed the tension flowing out of the air. Snape—Riddle—was engrossed in his own world again. And Bayly couldn't decide whether to smile or cry.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Did it work? Did you give him the diaries?"

"Yes, sir," said Bayly softly, hanging his head. "I did exactly what you said. He thinks it was all my idea, to be cruel to him. I don't like acting like _him_."

"You do what needs to be done!" the other voice replied, more sharply than strictly necessary. "You made sure Marshal didn't see anything?"

Bayly nodded, his eyes fixed on the carpet. This didn't feel right, yet it was…wasn't it?

"Good job." The older wizard patted him on the back. His arm snaked up around the youth's shoulders, his voice becoming soothing and smooth. "If I need you again, I can count on you. Right?"

"Yes, sir," whispered Bayly. "I'll do whatever I can to make this work."

"That's my boy," said the other with a final pat. "Go on home. Your wife is waiting for you."


	12. Bad Boys

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 12 (Bad Boys)

**July 16, 1974**

Lord Voldemort had moved his base of operations—again. The small, dank apartment in London had become too confining, and made him too restless. Aside from that, it was too crowded when he called his Death Eaters to himself. While he was glad to have increased his ranks, the blasted clods trod on his admittedly ratty rug, and bumped against his walls, and stomped about like water buffalo. Honestly, it had taken a great deal of restraint not to hex the occupants of other flats when they complained of the noise. If it wouldn't bring the Ministry upon him, he'd show them noise…

So here he was in Hedmark County, Norway, in a mountainous area nearly devoid of population. Nice and open, no neighbors, no trouble. He stood on the porch of a weathered cabin confiscated from a senile old hermit, overlooking the Glama River in the valley below. It was wild and raw and beautiful, and the intensity of it stirred in him a passion akin to magic clamoring to burst forth. As far as his enemies, or even his followers were concerned, he was incapable of appreciating natural beauty; they were wrong. He simply wondered how he could make it work to his advantage. What was wrong with that?

Tom shivered and cast a warming spell on himself. It was secluded here, it was safe—but damn it, it was cold! This was only to be a temporary headquarters, anyway, until he found a better one…maybe in the States. He'd heard the state of Florida was warm year-round.

Figures began apparating in the sloping front yard, following the call of their master. One, two, three…soon nearly two dozen Death Eaters were converging on the rustic cottage. Some of them silently greeted others as they lined up to mount the stairs and kiss the hem of Voldemort's robe. As usual, Bellatrix elbowed and shoved her way to the front, then proceeded to grovel so profusely it put the rest to shame before they'd even had a turn. As Tom regarded them, his deathly pale, oddly tight-featured face impassive, he thought to himself that he was making a superb decision, and not only because of the chill here in the summer air. It was a decision long in coming.

"My friends," he intoned to the semi-circle in his insincere, high voice, "it is so good to see you've made it here to my humble yet glorious abode." How he loved to hear himself talk! He should purchase one of those muggle recorders to make notes to himself, and play them back over and over! "I have come to the conclusion that my followers need coherence; you need an outward symbol that shows the world you all belong to me, that you are part of my team."

_Oh, my God. Please don't say we have to wear uniforms!_ Lucius begged silently. The Hogwarts uniform had been bad enough, in that he hadn't been permitted to show his superiority via his clothing and impeccable style. Now he entertained horrible images of knee breeches and bow ties, beanie caps, and whatever other disgusting ideas of 'vogue' the master might come up with. Not to be flippant, but the dark lord wasn't exactly a paragon of high fashion.

Ever the antithesis to Lucius, even when he hadn't said a word, Bella had begun hopping up and down excitedly, clapping to show her approval of whatever the master had in mind. He could have suggested wearing raccoons on their heads, and she'd have lauded him as a genius. Several other Death Eaters, afraid to appear less than loyally enthusiastic, applauded along with her.

Fortunately, Voldemort did not keep them waiting long. He extended a hand in a silent _accio_ and a flash of black sped into his hand. He shook it out and held it up for the crowd. It was a simple, long, black robe with a pointed hood; he waved a hand and a gruesome, skull-like mask materialized in the place where the face should be. A visible stir, along with a round of stunned utterances, rippled through the group.

"This, my friends, is to be your attire from now on whenever you are summoned to me, or whenever you go on a mission. It will not only identify you as one of my own, it will mark you as one to be feared and revered."

A cheer went up among the Death Eaters, Lucius shouting as loudly as the rest. Part of it was self-preservation, part relief that the outfit was—well, _awesome_! If muggles and mudbloods didn't tremble to see them behind those masks, they'd have to be either blind or cripplingly stupid—which most of them were, but that was beside the point.

"My lord," a deep voice said over the din.

Voldemort raised a bony hand for silence and fixed his dark eyes, flecked with pinpoints of red, on Rodolphus. "Yes, Lestrange? Do you have a problem with this?"

"No, master. I just wondered where we should get them. I mean, if we all start ordering similar garments from the tailors, someone is going to get wise," said Rodolphus. He dodged a kick from the spiky shoe of his wife, who had somehow slithered up next to him.

"We wear what the master says to wear!" she shrieked. "If I have to hex you—"

"Thank you, Bellatrix. That will be quite enough." Voldemort lowered the robes and let them fall to the floor of the porch. "Rodolphus raises a good argument. Those of you with house elves will have no difficulty obtaining a set of robes and masks through their efforts; the rest of you will commission to have your robes made by the elves of fellow Death Eaters." He stared out over his subjects, pleased to see no more questions. "Yaxley, find out where the Ministry hid that mudblood who is to testify against Jenkins. Then you, Dolohov, and Mulciber dispose of him."

"Yes, my lord," murmured the indicated three.

"Lucius, Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Bellatrix, I will speak with you inside. The rest of you may go." Riddle whirled to head into the cabin, nearly colliding with Bella, who'd scampered up the steps to cut him off at the pass, so to speak. In her rush, she'd thrust Lucius aside, and only clutching the railing so hard that his fingers cracked saved him from a nasty fall over the edge.

"My lord, after you," she purred at him, her dark, sultry eyes raking over the wizard. She self-consciously tugged at the hem of her ultra-short skirt as her tongue wet her lips. Voldemort smiled tightly and walked by her.

"Nice try, skank," Lucius whispered after the master had gone in. "Maybe you ought to try pleasing him on your merits, not on your back."

Bella whipped around. "Keep it up, blondie, and you'll have more than a little accident. Poor little Cissy might become a widow less than two weeks into her marriage!"

Before Lucius could respond, thereby adding fuel to the hostility and increasing the odds of his ending up as worm food, Rodolphus stepped between them. He ushered his wife into the cabin, then turned to his brother-in-law. "Are you insane or just f—king stupid, Lucius? Bella's not joking. You can insult her clothes or her attitude or her intelligence all you want, but never deride her skill. Trust me."

He followed his wife into the cabin. Lucius rolled his eyes, though he took the mini-lecture to heart. Roddy was a decent bloke; as such, he didn't want to see his friend murdered by his wife. Perhaps Malfoy would do well to watch his step around the psycho-bitch for a while. He entered only seconds after Rabastan, who, though at twenty was only two years older than Lucius, had never really been close to him as Dolph was.

Voldemort had seated himself on a sofa covered by a patchwork of animal skins, and had propped his feet on the strangely out of place modern plastic coffee table. That was a good sign…probably. He was relaxed, not vindictive…probably. One could never be absolutely certain. He gestured casually at Malfoy. "Lucius, may I first congratulate you on your nuptials?"

Lucius smiled, rather puzzled. The dark lord despised love and all expressions of it. "Thank you, my lord."

Riddle inclined his head in a way that could have been interpreted as gracious in a normal, run-of-the-mill non-sociopath. In Voldemort, no telling what it meant. "I'll get right to the heart of the matter so you can return home to your doting wife. Now that you're out of school, I anticipate you'll be acquiring a position at the Ministry of Magic. Your father certainly can pull a few strings to get you in."

"Yes, master, we've spoken about it," Lucius replied warily. "There aren't a lot of positions available."

"Anything will do. Your job is to get your foot in the door. From there, promotions will come, and you'll be privy to much useful information."

"Yes, my lord. I'll get right on it." Lucius bowed from the waist, lifted up, and waited.

"Go."

Lucius bowed again and dashed for the door, to disapparate before he'd even cleared the porch. The dark lord turned his attention to Rabastan, who stood meekly beside his brother, staring at the dark lord while trying to look like he was not studying him. When Voldemort's gaze touched him, he ducked his head and a tremor racked his body. A few days ago, when Dolph had brought him to meet the master and to receive the Mark, the Legilimens had plundered his mind so thoroughly and violently that he'd felt physically ill from the naked feeling of shame left behind. The master had seen things no one knew, things no one should ever know! He lived in terror of Dolph finding out what he'd done; anything else he could handle, anything but losing Dolph's love.

"I welcome my newest Death Eater. Rodolphus, you've done well to bring me the other son of Claudius. He was a loyal supporter; I feel his absence." Voldemort's lips curled into a facsimile of a smile—a cruel, taunting smile that let Rabastan understand he was thinking of how Rabastan had killed Claudius, and that it would take but a word to let Rodolphus know it. "I trust that you will emulate your brother, Rabastan. He shows remarkable initiative in eliminating muggles and other threats."

"Always, my lord," Rab whispered, casting a quick glance at Dolph. As much as he loved his brother, he wished he didn't have to prove that love by murder. But he would. He'd do whatever it took to show Dolph he was worthy.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 3, 2000**

_July 16, 1974_

_ I called a meeting of my Death Eaters today to show them the new robes and masks they are to wear. I detected nothing negative; in fact, they seemed most eager not only to please me—as is only right—but to conform to a standard. I suppose they long for a defining characteristic, and now they have it. The world will know and tremble at the image._

_ Rabastan Lestrange intrigues me. When I sifted his mind recently, I uncovered much more than I'd ever predicted. Inside, he is a gentle soul who longs for nothing more than the approval and love of his family. What a douche! How could he not recognize how fleeting and silly love is? Claudius surely never showed him any!_

_ However, I discovered that his devotion to his brother is paramount. He would follow me to the ends of the Earth before he'd divulge to Rodolphus that he'd killed their father. That is most useful for me, and I'd be a fool to disregard it._

_ I saw something else that gave me pause. Rabastan's uncle sexually molested him after Claudius' death. Rodolphus, apparently, is unaware of it, and Rabastan is appalled at the thought of his brother finding out. I dare say Rodolphus wouldn't waste much time in wreaking vengeance if he knew. He really is a wonderful asset to my Death Eater ranks!_

_ It reminds me, though, of that time long ago; I came close to being in Rabastan's place. What would it have taken for me to fall when I was a mere boy? I still held a tenuous, naïve confidence in those holding positions of authority…I still longed to hope there was something beyond what we could see. Fortunately, I grew out of such delusions before I succumbed to a demeaning liaison that may have damaged me for life._

Severus lifted his eyes from the diary hidden inside a large tome entitled _Aquatic Mammals and Their Antics_. As Tom, he no longer saw the need or desire to read the diary entries sequentially. Rather, he preferred to pick those that spoke to him or that referred to the situation at hand.

Outside the magical barrier, Dolph and Rab were playing a variation of ping-pong with wands and a rubber ball. A small nightstand dragged from Voldemort's old bedroom served as the table, and a charmed line on it became the net.

Dolph slammed the ball hard; it hit the nightstand and veered off to the right. His brother jumped to intersect and return it, only to have Dolph fling it back harder to the left. It sailed by Rabby, who struggled to catch it in a spell; once it had passed the end line, it was too late.

"Point for me," Dolph gloated.

Rabastan retrieved the ball and sent it on a high bounce over the elder man's head, making Dolph wave frantically trying to hook it with his wand. It hit the wall behind him before rolling into the hallway leading to what used to be the bedroom. Dolph trotted after it. He could have used an _accio_, but frankly he looked for opportunities to exercise now that he was stuck in here so often for hours at a time.

"Point for _me_," Rabby called after him, laughing.

Severus observed the game through narrowed eyes. Leaving the book closed on his throne, he stepped up to the bars, arms crossed, watching without a word. It made some of his jailers uneasy when he did this, which gave him a small degree of delight. Rodolphus didn't care, but Rabastan sent him a nervous, worried look. He merely stared back. At one time these two had functioned as a unit. Was it possible to now pit them against each other? Could he somehow use their 'love' to effect an escape for himself? And if so, how?

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"_Did it work? Did you give him the diaries?"_

_ "Yes, sir," said Bayly softly, hanging his head. "I did exactly what you said. He thinks it was all my idea, to be cruel to him. I don't like acting like __him__."_

_ "You do what needs to be done!" the other voice replied, more sharply than strictly necessary. "You made sure Marshal didn't see anything?"_

_ Bayly nodded, his eyes fixed on the carpet. This didn't feel right, yet it was…wasn't it?_

_ "Good job." The older wizard patted him on the back. His arm snaked up around the youth's shoulders, his voice becoming soothing and smooth. "If I need you again, I can count on you. Right?"_

_ "Yes, sir," whispered Bayly. "I'll do whatever I can to make this work."_

_ "That's my boy," said the other with a final pat. "Go on home. Your wife is waiting for you._"

Bayly started to walk away, halted, and spun back. He chewed fretfully on his lip before uttering, "Mr. Malfoy, I'm scared. What if it makes him worse? _You_ don't even sound confident that it will work."

Lucius crossed the space between them, again laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. Bayly needed that, the assurance of an older man in his life. With Severus incapacitated, that left Lucius to step up. Stating a fact, not a question, he said, "You love Severus."

Bayly's eyes dropped and he nodded.

"I love him, too," Lucius said softly. "We're going to get him back, if I have to spend every galleon I've got. So far, this is the best chance we have. I don't like Dumbledore, but he was extremely powerful, and he knew more than any ordinary wizard. We must trust he knows what he's doing."

"Will Professor Snape resent me for fooling him? For saying those mean things?"

Malfoy regarded the boy at length. Considering his less than stellar relationship with Dolohov, it was understandable he'd pin so much affection on Severus, who meant the world to him. "I'd have given Snape the diaries myself, but he wouldn't have believed me. Both Voldemort and Snape knew me too well." He paused briefly and then said, "Once he is well, Severus will not hold this against you."

"I'm glad," Bayly replied quietly. There was a short silence before he remarked, "Marshal's a real pain in the arse, by the way."

This time Lucius burst into an unexpected chuckle, then he sighed. "Yes, he is that. But he's staunch and dependable. Tell him to sod off, or hex him, and he'll behave."

"Sir, you didn't tell me everything Dumbledore said," persisted the youth.

Lucius stared blankly at him, processing his words. He'd been so focused on the outcome, he'd been cutting corners to get there. It was only fair to let the kid in on everything; he was a part of the plan, after all. "Here's what happened:"

_Lucius and Aline stood in Severus' office, in front of the portrait of Dumbledore. Salazar Slytherin was notably absent, though the rest of the portraits seemed extraordinarily interested. Albus had sternly warned them that to speak of this to anyone outside the office could spell disaster for Snape, and there'd subsequently been a round of head-bobbing and murmured assent._

_ Albus turned his attention to the live couple waiting before him. He adjusted his half-moon glasses, squeaked them clean on his robe, then fiddled with them again as he placed them on the bridge of his nose. Peering down, he said, "Aline, I'm sorry to say that, regarding a spell to swiftly undo the damage to Severus' brain, we have come up empty."_

_ Aline gasped; her knees buckled, and Lucius threw his arms round her to hold her up. He sent a vicious glare at the portrait, his demeanor clearly saying that the old wizard could have at least made a pretense of softening the blow._

_ "Oh, do forgive me," Dumbledore gushed at the witch. "I hadn't finished. Due to the nature of the problem, we must utilize a __gradual__ process in order to avoid irreparable harm. After much dialogue and deliberation, Salazar and I were able to procure a surprisingly simple solution: we modified the charm already on the diaries. Once the books are re-charmed with this spell, reading the material will cause the effects on Severus' brain to __lessen__ progressively the more he reads." _

_ With a bemused astonishment, Aline straightened herself and ventured, "So he has to read __more__ of the material that destroyed him in order to get better?"_

_ "Ironically, yes," Dumbledore admitted._

_ "It won't work," interrupted Lucius, who had up to now been ignored by Albus. "Severus heard us talking, he knows what the diaries are doing to him. He'll rightly assume it's a trick if we offer him the books."  
_

_"They're like a drug to him," Aline said to Lucius, almost as if trying to convince herself. "He __needs__ them. Surely he'll take what he can get."_

_ "Mr. Malfoy is correct, Aline," Dumbledore said. The twinkle-less expression of his countenance bespoke how he detested agreeing with Lucius on anything. "Tom has gained control. He will not give it up, even if it means suffering for want of his possessions. However, I've known Lucius Malfoy long enough to be assured that he'll come up with a plan to get the diaries to Severus without arousing suspicion."_

_ Lucius scowled. Coming from one of his friends or peers, that statement would have made him proud. Dumbledore was neither a friend nor a peer; this was not praise being heaped on him, regardless of the context. "No one has ever proven I had a thing to do with Voldemort's horcrux diary getting to the Weasley girl," he fumed._

_ "I wasn't aware we were discussing that," said Albus blandly._

_ "Professor, please tell me the spell so we can charm the books," Aline broke in. She didn't care what Lucius may or may not have done many years ago. She only cared about Severus and how to cure him!_

"He gave us the spell, we charmed the diaries, and you delivered them," Lucius summed up. "Now we must wait and hope he reads them."

"And pray," Bayly added seriously. "We can pray."

Lucius smiled and nodded. He slapped the boy's back again. "Yes, we can do that. Goodnight, Bayly."

"Goodnight, sir. Oh, I forgot—Happy Anniversary to you and Mrs. Malfoy." Bayly grinned and stepped into the fireplace to floo home.

After he'd gone, Lucius gulped down the remainder of the wine in his goblet. As bad as things were right now, this had not been their worst anniversary by far. He'd spent two of them in Azkaban at different times; Narcissa had been cursed and was stranded behind the Veil for another. At least this one ended on a positive note…there was a chance for Severus. Happy Anniversary, indeed. He set the glass down and headed for the stairs and his lovely bride.


	13. Horcruxes, Worms, and Golf Balls

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 13 (Horcruxes, Worms, and Golf Balls)

**August 28, 1940**

As prearranged with his group of cohorts at the end of the previous school year, Tom had headed to Knockturn Alley for a bit of exploring before venturing out to purchase supplies for his fourth year. Lacking an owl, and unable to communicate via post in the muggle fashion, he'd given the suggestion (read: order) to be here at noon. He looked at his pocket watch; it was only half past eleven. His intense desire to flee the orphanage had brought him here early. Ah, well, may as well probe about on his own.

Riddle strode down the narrow, dank alley with his head held high. Every so often unsavory individuals approached him, only to hurriedly be on their way when they caught sight of his oddly unsettling, commanding pose and hypnotic eyes, so out of character for a boy not yet out of school, even if he was tall and mature for his age. Tom meandered past a shop of giant spiders, then peered in the window of a shop selling shrunken heads. He'd have to return there when the other blokes got here; it looked quite interesting.

He turned around to face directly at Borgin and Burkes, the largest Dark Arts establishment in London, at least as far as he was aware…and he'd be aware if other such places existed within his grasp. A bell clanged overhead when he opened the door. The place was dimly lit, giving an aura of mystery to a shop already dedicated to the bizarre and rare. Approaching the glass case, where most recent acquisitions and valuable smaller items were kept, Tom gazed down at the spread: a mummified hand; various vials of poisons; a sleek dagger with a chink taken out of its blade; a stuffed toad. His eye caught on a misshapen, charred bronze ring, and lingered at length.

"May I help you, young man?" A small wizard, his dark hair sprinkled with white, walked in from the back room. "Oh, Tom, it's you! How have you been?"

"Fine, Mr. Burke, thank you." Tom tapped the glass with one finger, signaling downward. "What is that?"

Burke smiled widely, nodding to himself and pushing his thatch of hair out of his face. "You have an eye for Dark objects. That was purported to be a horcrux of Merlin himself. Of course, that's been discredited," he added, his smile turning lopsided. "More likely it belonged to the Chinese sorcerer Mencius. As you can see, it was destroyed by Fiendfyre—but luckily the fire was extinguished before it completely destroyed the ring itself."

"I don't believe I've ever heard of a _horcrux_," said Tom slowly, peering at the man. He didn't like not knowing things; it made him feel vulnerable.

"Not surprising, what with how they don't teach such things in that namby-pamby school," acknowledged the proprietor. "A horcrux is an object that a wizard puts part of his soul into. That way, if he dies, he's not really dead—not so long as that sliver of his soul lives."

"This can't be a common practice," Tom scoffed. If so, everyone would do it!

"No, it surely isn't. Very, very rare, mainly because you have to do something terrible—murder—to make one." Burke picked up the distorted ring and held it out to the boy, who weighed it in his palm and studied it carefully.

"I don't understand how it's possible," said Tom finally. He handed the ring back to the man. "You can't divide your soul."

Burke shrugged as he placed the ring back in the glass case. "I'm only telling you what I've heard. I suppose if you wanted to read up on it, you could find a book or two to explain it better than I can. There's Tomb Tomes right down the alley there."

Tom remained pensively silent for a long moment. In a clipped voice he said, "I may do that. Good day, sir."

"And to you, Tom."

The youth exited the shop, turned right, and like a man on a mission marched toward the indicated bookstore. He'd gone exactly two and a half paces when his name rang out in the alley.

"Riddle! There you are!" Lewis Mulciber came scuttling up the street with Claudius Lestrange and Quenby Nott. They automatically gathered in a pack, silently taking their places around their leader.

Spinning slowly on his heel, Tom faced the group with a grim admonition. "One does not shout my name in the street. And you know I prefer to be called Lord Voldemort."

"Sorry," Mulciber apologized. His eyes flicked around to the few people nearby. No matter what Tom said, he was smart enough to realize that if he'd shouted _Lord Voldemort_, he'd have likely earned himself a painful hex or two. "I only wanted to get your attention. You told us to meet you."

"I have business elsewhere at the moment," Tom responded, not offering to explain what this business might be. His companions, not expecting an explanation, accepted it without comment. "Entertain yourselves for a while."

He'd scarcely finished speaking when a new source of amusement came lumbering down the alley, a grotesquely large boy with a head of thick, bushy hair and beetle-black eyes that gave him the appearance of a wild man. The newcomer scrutinized the pack of Slytherins, then he boomed out, "Hello, there. I'm Rubeus Hagrid, I'm goin' ter Hogwarts this year. D'yeh all go there?"

"Yeah, we do," said Claudius. A cruel grin began to spread over his face. "What year are you? Seventh?" Truth be told, the kid was bigger than any seventh year Claudius had ever seen. Heck, he could climb this kid like a tree!

"Nope. I'm a firstie," announced the giant proudly. "Got my robes and books 'ere somewheres." He began rummaging through the pockets of his enormous, droopy coat that draped down round his knees.

"We don't hang with firsties," said Mulciber, elbowing Nott in the side. "Do we?"

"No, can't say that we do, even when they're tall as us," concurred his friend.

Hagrid's happy countenance had fallen when Tom spoke up in a tone that brooked no discussion. "Hagrid, is it? Welcome to Hogwarts. My friends are just teasing you. I'm sure you'll be very happy there."

"Thanks, er—wha's yer name?"

"Tom Riddle. You'll see me around." Tom smiled pleasantly and motioned with a simple thrust of his jaw to his companions. They obediently squeezed past the giant to find another diversion. "I have an errand to attend to. I'll see you at Hogwarts."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 10, 2000**

_Aug. 28, 1940_

_ I learned of a most splendid thing today—horcruxes! All my life I've wondered if there were a way to keep from dying, and it dropped right into my lap! And the best part of all, aside from eternal life, of course, is that scarcely anyone knows such devices exist. All I have to do is make a horcrux and hide it well where no one can harm or destroy it, and I shall be immortal!_

_ The books I consulted were much more thorough than I'd dared to hope. Not only did they describe what a horcrux is (and that you really do need to murder someone), one of them detailed the spell necessary to make a horcrux. I committed it to memory for future use._

_ We met a boy that I am certain is a giant in Knockturn Alley. Naturally he won't say he is, giants are frowned upon and feared…yet, he can't be full-blooded. He is too small, judging by what I've read, and he's a wizard. Therefore he can't be full giant. He's rather slow-witted and incredibly homely, but you never know when it may be an asset to have a giant on your side. I've instructed my companions to lay off taunting him._

_ Three more days until school begins. I wonder if I ought to go back to Diagon Alley, maybe Flourish and Blott's. If I were to run into Minerva, her Gryffindor cohorts wouldn't be around. She wants to be my friend, I know she does, but __they__ hold her back. Not that it matters, I don't need her. I only wanted to evaluate the extent to which her magic has developed. Last year that spell she created to transfigure an ivy plant into a hippogriff—sheer genius for a first year. I've never said that about anyone except myself. But no…if she wants to talk to me, she'll have to come to me. I'll not act like a puppy hanging on her heels!_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Severus/Tom smiled slyly to himself, remembering the day he'd learned about horcruxes. It had been such a perfect solution for living forever…and then those disgusting toadies of Dumbledore had thwarted him! His smile morphed rapidly into an eerie scowl. How he hated Potter with every fiber of his being! When he got out of here, he'd make the little brat pay; he'd torture him beyond human limits, revive him, and go again until he grew tired of the sport. That could take quite a long time; there were so many torments and techniques he'd like to make improvements on.

Picking up off his table the apple left over from lunch, he tossed it up and down in his palm. If he could get close to the bars and whip it through hard enough, he just might be able to knock out Mulciber's worthless son. Most likely—assuming his aim to be true, which was a grave assumption on anyone's part, since neither Snape nor Riddle had been exactly athletically gifted—the apple would simply mush into an uncooked pile of applesauce on the prat's head. And even if it succeeded, that left him no recourse to escape this loathsome prison.

In a fit of peevishness, he slammed the apple onto the stone slab. Predictably, it splintered, sending juicy bits here and there. What the…? Snape bent in close to examine the fruit, then lifted piercing black orbs at Jack Mulciber, who'd sat up straighter at the clamor.

"So this is how you treat your 'friend', Mulciber?" Severus hissed, his tone thick with contempt. "Half-rotten apples with worms in them?" To make his point, he picked up a wriggling green cabbage worm between thumb and forefinger.

"Sorry, Snape. I didn't know it was there," Jack answered, shrugging apologetically. "Next time I'll check more carefully."

"And I'd like a shower!" the other demanded petulantly, flinging the worm onto the floor. "I've been _scourgified_ enough, I want water!"

"That's not up to me. Lucius is the one—"

"_Lucius is the one_," Severus mimicked in a high cackle. "You never did have an original thought in your head, did you? Go away!" He abruptly turned his back and crossed his arms. He was acting childish, and he didn't care. He wanted out, and he wanted it _now_.

"They're here!" The voice echoed in from the entrance. A few moments later, Lucius strode in accompanied by Aline and Jacinta. The latter went directly to Jack and hugged him, for he'd decreed she could visit Snape—if and only if Jack was present. Lucius, who'd been standing guard with Mulciber, had been waiting outside for the women to appear.

Aline walked up to the bars with Malfoy on her heels. There was no way he was going to let anything happen to her or the babies. "Severus," she said gently. "It's me. I know you can hear me."

"Of course I can hear you, you blithering harpy," Tom growled as he whirled to face her. "You're going to try to 'reach' Severus, believing the depth of his pitiful love for you will be enough to override my influence. Save your time and your breath."

"Don't be mean to her!" Jacinta snapped as she stepped up on the other side of Lucius. "My papa will defeat you! He's better than you—and smarter, too!"

"Smarter?" echoed Tom, raising his brows in amused dismay at the whelp's audacity. "_Better_ is a subjective term, but one can hardly call Dumbledore's lackey smarter than the most powerful wizard in the world."

Here Lucius cleared his throat with a brisk cough. "Not to throw cold water on your parade—oh, wait, I do intend to. Exactly how intelligent was that needlessly complex and ultimately useless plan to bring Harry Potter to the cemetery when you rejuvenated your body? Seriously, wouldn't a portkey at the appropriate time from the safety of Moody's office have sufficed? Or couldn't that idiot Crouch have stunned the brat and apparated him from outside the gate?"

Tom's glower grew deeper and more hateful with every word. "You'll get yours, Malfoy. When I'm free—"

"You sound like a bloody parrot," Lucius interrupted, deliberately aiming a smirk his way. "'When I'm free', 'when I escape', 'I'll wreak havoc on the whole sodding world'. Just give it up and let Snape go."

"You'd all like that, wouldn't you?" Tom cooed, his tone deepening and smoothing to sound like Severus once more. His visage relaxed into its usual form, devoid of all the subtle idiosyncrasies of Riddle. He swerved around the table and rushed to the bars, prompting Malfoy to grab both witches and yank them backward with him.

"If you so much as try to harm either one of them, I'll break every bone in that skinny hand," Lucius commented evenly.

"And I'll crush your skull in," Jack added. He'd come over to stand beside Jacinta. "We're both stronger than you, we wouldn't even need magic."

Snape glared from Lucius to Jack, then tossed his head to throw his hair out of his face. Both hands gripped the bars of his cell. "I suppose I can't blame you for that; I'd do the same. I assure you, I intend no harm to my wife or daughter." He turned his attention to Aline and his tone softened. "Voldemort let me go for the time being, my love. Perhaps if I fight harder, I can keep him at bay." He stretched out a hand to her.

Aline studied her husband from the safety of her position out of reach of the cell. While she appreciated Lucius' and Jack's protective demeanor, it was not strictly required—not for her, anyway. If Severus got rough, her preternatural strength connected to her clairvoyance would be sufficient to guard herself. She gingerly took a pace forward and grasped his hand, ever so cautiously allowing her fingers to caress the slim palm, to stroke the length of it to the very tips of his nails. She lingered over the pinkie ring, the symbol of their shared love. The very touch of the familiar limb brought tears to her eyes; the knowledge that this was not truly Severus made her want to break down in heartrending wails. She dropped his hand and stepped away, averting her face from the others, though the comfort of Lucius' steadying arm round her waist gave her courage. She wasn't alone in this; someone was trying his best to bring Severus back.

"I love you, Aline," Snape said.

"And I love Severus," she responded curtly.

Not missing a beat, Snape homed in on Jacinta and crooned, "Jacinta, you can see it's me—your father. No offense, Jack. I'm glad you came; we don't spend enough time together."

"Papa, we'll find a way to get you back, just be patient. Dumbledore and Salazar Slytherin are working on it." Because it had seemed most prudent to keep the secret among as few as possible, apart from Aline, Lucius, and Bayly, no one knew about the re-spelled diaries. Jacinta made a move as if to approach the bars, but stayed where she was. With Jack at her elbow, it was unlikely she could have made it if she tried. "I just want you to know we won't give up."

"Don't you see there is no need, daughter? I can restrain the intruder until a cure is found. Convince these people I'm no threat to them," Severus urged.

"Nice try, Snape. It's not gonna work," Jack broke in, looking to Lucius for corroboration. "Jacinta, I honestly don't think it's a good idea for you to come here. I don't trust him."

"He needs our support," Jacinta objected.

"I need her support," Severus echoed. A hint of laughter danced behind his somber eyes.

Lucius, who'd only been half-listening to the conversation, noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. His gaze landed on Jack, where a small green caterpillar was inching its way up his pantleg. It seemed bent on entering his trouser pocket when Lucius reached across Jacinta and plucked it off, to Jack's dismay.

Jack lurched back as if attacked and exclaimed, "What are you doing?"

Holding the squiggling green worm between his fingers, Lucius lifted it up for all to see. For crying out loud, he wasn't trying to molest the man! "It's just a worm." He pitched it on the floor; his foot rose, hovered over it, and stopped at a shrill cry from Aline.

"Wait! I can use that for potion ingredients." She stooped over and scooped up the tiny creature, only to let out a muffled shriek as she hurled it onto the floor a distance away.

"Aline, what—" Lucius began.

"It's human!" she gasped, even as her wand slid into her hand from her wrist holster.

"An animagus?" asked Jack, drawing his wand along with Lucius.

Aline shook her head. A stream of yellow light shot from her wand, frying the insect where it crawled. Then she directed her own piercing gaze at Severus. "It was _him_. He was controlling it."

Meanwhile, Jack was looking down at the pocket from which he'd drawn his wand, and a terrible thought occurred to him. "I think it was trying to get my wand."

"New rule," Lucius said as he pulled the women further from the cage. "Any animals or insects you find in here are to be killed. No exceptions."

From the cell, Tom burst into a hearty laugh. Maybe he hadn't made it to freedom, but he hadn't really expected to, and he'd had a good laugh at their expense. All pretense of being Snape was dropped. "I had to try. I had you all fooled."

"I knew you weren't Severus," Aline whispered in the suddenly ominously still room. "I could feel it, despite your words. You're not as brilliant as you think you are."

"Have I another worthy adversary?" queried Tom, looking rather tickled at the prospect. "When I'm free—" He ignored the rolling of Lucius' eyes. "—I'll attend to you after I kill Malfoy." All at once a sensation of pain darted over his face; he clutched the side of his head, grimacing. Several gasping breaths later, he panted, "Aline…get…out."

The witch's eyes grew three sizes. "Severus?"

"Go!" And then the pain dissipated. Tom blinked a few times, then sneered at the woman, "Fooled you again."

Everyone in the room exchanged puzzled glances, no one quite sure what to believe. Lucius fixed the Snape/Tom with an icy stare. As the only one present who'd known Voldemort in person (Snape aside, considering he was currently _part_ of the evil wizard), he could say with remarkable accuracy that this wasn't normal behaviour even for Voldemort, who'd redefined the limits of insanity. It could only mean one thing: Severus was fighting back! The diaries were having an effect! Without so much as a wrinkle of change in facial expression, Lucius ushered Aline and Jacinta toward the exit. "It's best we don't disturb the maniac too much at one time."

When they'd got outside, Aline waited until Jacinta had disapparated to inquire excitedly, "Did you see it, Lucius? He was different! It was Severus, I know it was!"

Not one to encourage false hope, but certainly one to fan the flames of warranted optimism, Lucius nodded. "I believe you're right. However, Tom realizes it was as well. He'll fight harder to keep control."

Troubled eyes falling amid the clouds obscuring the spot of joy, Aline admitted, "I suppose he will." Pause. "This could work in our favor. If Voldemort wants to maintain control, he may read more of the diaries, assuming they'll push Severus further under."

"He may indeed," Lucius agreed, smiling at the notion. He hadn't thought of it, but it was a logical assumption. "You ought to go, this isn't a good place for you."

She began to walk away from the arch, then halted and turned back. "Lucius, I don't get something. Of all the things Severus could have said to me, why did he tell me to leave? You'd think he'd want me to stay. What if Voldemort really was jerking my chain?"

Lucius sauntered over to her, still smiling, shaking his head. "Severus said that because he loves you. He doesn't want you to see him this way and, more importantly, he doesn't wish to permit the remotest possibility of harm coming to you or the children. I'd have said the same to Narcissa."

A fiery burst of love ignited in Aline's chest, constricting her breathing. She adored Severus more than she'd ever loved anyone in her life; she needed him so desperately, now above all. Her hands rubbed soothingly over her pregnant midsection. Soon the twins were to be born…would Severus be himself by then? Would her children ever have a father?

She choked back a despairing sob. As heartwarming as her husband's sentiments were, she couldn't leave him alone to battle this evil. She simply _could not_. Arguing softly but determinedly, she said, "My presence helped to bring him out."

"It did. Severus told you what he wants, not what he needs. You must return, but I must insist that I always accompany you. Severus would never forgive me if I didn't." Lucius brushed a kiss across her cheek. "I have to get back in there, make sure he's not up to another trick. Goodnight, Aline."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The golf ball ricocheted off one of the twirling windmill blades, which sent it spinning at just short of light speed straight between the shoulder blades of a burly man. He arched his back and exhaled a loud 'Huh!' before turning a scowling face upon the four young people gawking abashedly at him.

"Sorry, mate," Sirius called out, grinning stupidly and trying unsuccessfully to hide the putter behind him.

"Watch what you're doin' ya little tosser," barked the injured man in return. He snatched up the ball and whipped it at Sirius' head, though the latter was nimble enough to dodge it. The muggle then stomped off to another area of the miniature golf course, glaring over his shoulder as he went.

Pursing her lips as if she couldn't decide whether to laugh or chide Sirius, Daphne remarked, "And whose idea was it to let Sirius choose this activity?"

"That would be yours," Draco replied dryly.

"You have to admit, there's never a dull moment with him," said Astoria.

"Which is why I'm dating him," Daphne said, smiling at her sister.

"Even after you turned down my proposal," added Sirius, feigning hurt. It bought him a peck on the lips and a snuggly hug from the young witch. Honestly, if Daphne had agreed to marry him, he'd have been flabbergasted—but pleased. He now had an impetus to redouble his efforts to make her love him…he was nothing if not doggedly persistent.

Astoria sidled up to Draco and walked beside him as they trailed behind the other couple on the way to the sand trap. In a quiet voice she murmured, "You needn't fear, Draco. If you asked me to marry you, I wouldn't turn you down."

_Oh, crap, here it comes!_ It was only a matter of time, he knew, though he'd prayed to avoid this conversation. Why did women always bring up sensitive subjects when in public? Was it a female rule of some kind? "Tori, do we have to do this here?"

She pulled up short, forcing him to stop as well. "Then when, Draco? You avoid the topic like the plague. I'm not getting any younger."

"You're eighteen!" he exclaimed. "It isn't like you're going to shrivel up of old age."

"That isn't the point!" she shot back. "You say you love me, but everyone asks me why I haven't got a ring to prove it. All I can do is make lame excuses. Can you understand how humiliating that is?"

Lowering his voice, Draco pulled her by the hand into a cluster of bushes dividing the courses. Calmly he repeated the speech he'd given her once already. "My parents said there's nothing I can do for Severus. I'm leaving for the Ukraine next week. How can I propose when I won't be around for months at a time? For all I know, you'll forget me while I'm gone." Alright, that last part was a new addition.

And it was the most wrong thing to say. Astoria seemed to grow physically larger to loom like a banshee over the young man, her countenance a mask of rage. "It's good to know you have such faith in me! _You're_ probably the one who wants to forget _me_, so you're putting the blame on me. I'm glad I found out your true colours so I can stop wasting my time. Once my mum puts out the word that I'm available, maybe I'll get a beau who really cherishes me! Goodbye, Draco—and don't you dare follow me home or I'll hex you to hell and back!"

She disapparated, leaving Draco to either explain to the other couple what had happened, or retreat himself. A moment later, he was on his way to Malfoy Manor to sulk and brood over the egregious way he'd been treated. He'd only tried to be honest with her. Wasn't that what girls wanted? They _claimed_ it was! Maybe he wasn't ready to get married, did she ever think of that? Of course not, she was a selfish little brat and he wished he'd never met her! So why was his heart doing this funny, sickening dance in his chest? He stomped up the stairs to his room and threw himself face down on his bed, unable to determine whether he was more angry or more hurt. Perhaps if he could remove that searing knife from his chest, he could think more clearly to decide.


	14. Close Call

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 14 (Close Call)

**October 1, 1940**

Even as an eleven-year-old boy barely a month into his formal schooling, Cosmo Yaxley looked mean. His hatchet-like face, while probably the result of genetics more than anything else, carried a more sinister mien than one his age should have. His beady eyes, ever moving, ever searching, tended to make others ill at ease…but not Tom. Other children never frightened him.

When Riddle first laid eyes on the kid, he felt certain Yaxley would be sorted into Slytherin. Dolohov, a friend of Yaxley before coming to school, assured Tom that Cosmo was pureblood, that his family valued all the same things their group espoused. Naturally, everyone anticipated an addition to the Slytherin table. When the Sorting Hat shouted, "Hufflepuff!", their little clique had nearly shit a collective brick.

It had all worked out for the best in the end. As a result of having a 'friend' in Hufflepuff House, Tom had gained access to a part of the castle that until now had eluded him. Befriending the giant Hagrid, on the other hand, seemed unproductive at best. Because of the Gryffindor propaganda continually assaulting the new students, Hagrid tended to stick with his own and shun the Slytherins like all the rest of them.

Proud to be included in Tom's group, in spite of his unfortunate Sorting, Cosmo led the troop to a door at the right side of the main staircase in the Entrance Hall and down a flight of stairs to dungeon level. He announced a password to permit access through a still-life painting near the kitchens, opening up into the Hufflepuff common room.

Yellow and black alternating wall hangings gave the impression of having been swallowed by a giant bumblebee. Comfortable armchairs lined the round room, and little underground tunnels led to the dormitories, all of which had perfectly round doors resembling barrel tops.

"This living like a mole would drive me nuts," said Claudius to no one in particular. "I'm glad I'm not a 'Puff."

"Better than being a _poof_," Yaxley retorted. When Lestrange whirled on him, he stood his ground.

"He's got you there," Dolohov chimed in, clapping his mate on the back and joining Yaxley against Lestrange.

Claudius eyed them both before backing off. Divide and conquer. He'd kick Dolohov's arse later as a warning to his cheeky brat of a friend. Then, some time in the future, he'd arrange to punish Yaxley. Call him a poof, would they?

They hadn't stayed long in Hufflepuff House, only long enough for Tom to become acquainted with the layout. One never could tell when it may come in handy, and he liked to be prepared. As it was getting on to supper time, the gang bounded up the stairs on the way to the Great Hall.

In the Entrance Hall, where dozens of students clamored down the staircases, there was a sudden shift. Now, one of the first details pupils learned at Hogwarts was to watch their footing in this Hall, for staircases shifted at random and without warning. Unfortunately, every so often a child in the middle of a step was caught off guard, either due to preoccupation or simple inattention. Usually they had time and presence of mind to jump forward or backward to safety. Usually.

A second year girl, busy scribbling a note to herself in one of her books, stepped forward, her eyes fixed on her task. An instant later she screamed and tumbled into the empty space where only seconds ago a firm staircase had stood. As if in slow motion, she pitched forward, her books and quill flying in all directions about her, her black hair obscuring her face, her arms vainly outstretched and grasping at the air.

Tom didn't remember taking out his wand; he didn't hear the students shrieking or see them gawping at the girl plunging to her death. He focused solely on his spell, which he had no time to utter, nor even to think the words. The idea, the effect he wished to create was all that entered his mind, and none too soon. The girl hit the floor—or what had been the floor until a moment earlier. Now it was a thick, spongy mattress on which the student landed and bounced a time or two before realizing she was alive. She sat up, pushed her hair back off her face, and looked around.

"Are you alright?" Tom offered his hand to Minerva.

She smiled and blinked, confused and pleased at once. "I think so. Did you do this?" She patted the mattress beneath her.

He nodded as she took his hand and started to rise, only to fall back with a sharp yelp. Several other Gryffindors, apparently distressed that one of their own had not only fallen almost to her death, but had broken ranks to fraternize with the enemy, rushed in to surround the pair.

"Back off, Slytherin," a seventh year prefect boy ordered, shoving Tom aside.

"Did he hurt you?" inquired a girl.

Minerva, her hand still outstretched for Tom, who'd faded away, shook her head. "He saved me! You saw it—you all saw it!"

"You cried out when he touched you," said the seventh year, stubbornly persistent in his accusation.

"I think I twisted my ankle when I fell off the landing up there," Minerva said. Her eyes raked through the gathering crowd, but there was no Tom. Her books and belongings, however, were stacked neatly beside a support post.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 16, 2000**

_Oct. 1, 1940_

_ Minerva could have died today. She held my hand and smiled when I cleverly prevented her from squashing on the floor. It felt like we finally might talk, when her Gryffindork cronies showed up. How I despise them! Instead of recognition for selfless acts of altruism, the brutes deliver spite and allegations. If they could have gotten away with it, they'd have claimed I made the staircase move! They even managed to convince the professors that nothing extraordinary had happened. After all, who at this school will take the word of a group of Slytherins over that of Gryffindors, the saviours of mankind?_

_ I know who each and every one of them is, and one day they'll get theirs. I'll get them all if it takes me the rest of my life! (Of course, if I succeed in making a horcrux later, I'll never die. See how they like that!)_

_ Minerva sent me an owled message from the infirmary. It said, "Thank you, Tom. You're my hero." I'm certain __they'll__ coerce her into avoiding me again, so I don't really understand why it means anything to me. Yet it does._

It bothered Tom, the whole diary entry. Not that he minded seeing Minerva again, reliving that experience. No, it was the damned Gryffindorks! He had, as he'd promised himself, taken revenge on every last one who'd ever stood in the way of him and Minerva. He had not, however, murdered any of them. Hell, he hadn't even tortured them! How childish he'd been in his vengeance as a boy—pranks to give them boils on their eyes, spells to cause them to step into 'holes' and break an ankle, and so on. Honestly, he could have done so much better! If he were free, he could wreak proper retribution on them, and enjoy every last millisecond of it.

He shut the book with his diary inside, then meandered up to the bars of the cell. He stood there glowering at the pair of sentries. Rodolphus and Regulus were his guards this time around. Lestrange had been a faithful disciple in his time; Black, in contrast, had turned on his master shortly after pledging his allegiance, had even had the audacity to steal his locket and leave an insolent message in its place. Oh, sure, he'd died—but he was alive now, and it was high time he paid for his betrayal!

Sauntering back to his table, he glanced over his collection of books. Choosing a fairly small one, he strode back, cleared his throat, and began to read aloud from it. "_Why, sir, I trust that I may have leave to speak, and speak I will; I am no child, no babe."_

"Shut up, Snape," Dolph said. He reclined back as far as possible in a chair facing the cage, looking bored, as usual.

Unperturbed, Severus continued, "_Your betters have endured me say my mind, and if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart—"_

"I said shut the f—k up!" bellowed Dolph, sitting up straight. He didn't look bored now.

"And you'll make me _how_?" inquired Severus, raising an eyebrow curiously. "You can't hex me through the elf-magic barrier." His lips curled in a mocking smile. _"Or else my heart, concealing it, will break, and rather than it shall, I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words."_

"Severus, just stop, okay?" Regulus stepped between the two, although there existed no danger of an actual confrontation. "Nobody wants to hear it, and you're only pissing him off."

"Merlin forbid we should piss off Lestrange," grumbled Snape/Tom.

"_Goodman_," Dolph corrected him with a hateful gleam in his eye.

In answer, Tom chucked the book between the bars, ostensibly in an attempt to hit Dolph. It fell short and smacked on the floor. Pursing his lips, he growled, "Give me back my book."

"Why should I?" Dolph snarled back. Then again, maybe he _should_. He picked it up, took a step forward, and hurled it at the bars. It slapped against them with a dull clang, bounced off, and landed on the stones near his feet. "Oops. Missed. Want me to try again?"

"Dolph, quit." Regulus snatched up the tome. "You're both acting like kids." It felt strange to be the one scolding someone else for behaving the way _he_ was so often accused of being. But at least he was only nineteen, not in his thirties or forties…or seventies, if he counted Voldemort! Yes, everyone was on edge from weeks of guarding Snape, but it couldn't be helped. Deal with it already!

If only to avoid more bickering or juvenile throwing matches, he carried the book up to the bars and held it at arm's length. "Here. If you start to read aloud again, I'll just put up a silencing charm."

Tom/Snape slouched forward, hand extended to receive the book. Instead of taking it, he lurched toward the bars, thrusting his arm through and grabbing Regulus by the wrist. In one smooth, vicious pull he yanked the boy hard up against the bars, his free arm encircling Reg's neck, throttling him until his eyes bulged.

"One move from you, Lestrange, and I'll kill him," Tom hissed at the other man, whose hand had gone for his wand. "Turn around, face away from me."

"This isn't going to help you any," said Dolph, gulping. If he obeyed, he wouldn't be able to aid Regulus…and if he disobeyed, Regulus would die by Snape's hand. The Potions master—if not Voldemort himself—knew enough about human anatomy to kill the kid very handily and quickly. He hesitated, then reluctantly spun to face the opposite wall, as the sound of Black choking made him clench his fists in fury.

Releasing Reg's arm while holding him tightly about the throat, Tom hurriedly patted the boy's pockets in search of his wand. He plucked it from a breast pocket, then let go of Regulus and retreated to the back of his cell. The lad slumped to his hands and knees, gasping for air.

"Dolph…stop…him," he managed to utter.

Dolph looked over his shoulder, saw the kid had been freed, and rushed over to pull him away from the cage. He drew his wand and fired it at Snape at the same time Tom fired back at him. Both spells hit the magical barrier erected by Sisidy and ricocheted around the room, making everyone duck and cover.

Because anti-apparition wards prevented Tom from leaving, he did the next best thing: he aimed at the back wall of his cell and blasted the bars to smithereens. A second spell exploded a hole in the wall, though not completely through the thick stone. Dolph ran from the room on his way outside; from the position of the hole, he could guess with relative certainty where Voldemort would be exiting the castle, and he hoped to be able to stun him before he cleared the ward and apparated away.

"Kreacher!" Regulus croaked. Ignoring the raw, blistering pain in his throat, he screamed, "KREACHER!"

The elf popped in, smiling grotesquely at his beloved master. "Yes, good Master Regulus?" His smile faded and his ears drooped at the scene before him.

"Stop him!" Regulus ordered, pointing at Snape.

Kreacher didn't need to know why good Master Regulus was playing in a dirty, dim, ramshackle old building. He didn't need to know why Snape was to be stopped from blowing holes in the walls, which couldn't possibly make the place more unappealing than it already was. All he needed to know was that his wonderful Regulus looked hurt and had commanded his help.

He stretched a scrawny arm out from his body in Snape's direction. Like an invisible ocean wave, the magic crashed into the cell. The stone table with all its books flipped on end and slammed into the bars on the far side. Severus was lifted off his feet a good meter into the air and flung against the bars so ferociously the impact rendered him unconscious. He dropped like a rag doll to the floor.

"Take my wand from him," said Regulus.

Kreacher apparated into the cell, grabbed the wand from Snape's fingers, and lifted a foot to kick the wizard for harming Regulus.

"No, Kreacher. Fix the bars and table and stuff, then come out and I'll explain." Regulus sat up, massaging his throat.

This was not good. In fact, everything about this reeked of _bad_. Awful even…or dreadful. No one else was supposed to know what was going on here at the castle, but now it couldn't be avoided. He'd have to fill Kreacher in, at least a little, and order him not to tell anyone else. Lucius was going to be so cross over this whole affair, and no doubt he'd blame Regulus for all of it. And the blame would be well-deserved; he should have known not to get close enough for Snape to grab him. But who'd have thought he'd try another escape attempt so soon? And why hadn't Dumbledore come up with a solution by now? For being so smart, he wasn't showing it, was he?

By the time Dolph came back inside to find out why Snape hadn't emerged, Regulus had described to Kreacher in barest details about Severus turning into Tom Riddle. Now he'd have to explain to Dolph what Kreacher was doing here…

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The sudden rapping of an owl outside Lucius' study window caused him to start. He'd been so engrossed in revising a bill of sale on a piece of property that was bound to make him a tidy profit that he'd forgotten to even heed the time. From the pocket watch on his fob, it was after five o'clock, he'd need to finish up soon.

He flicked his wand at the window and the owl flew in, perched on his desk, and waited motionless. He detached the note from its leg, fully expecting it to be from a business associate, and leaned back in his armchair to read it.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_ I don't think you know me, but I know you. I read about you in the __Daily Prophet__ sometimes. My name is Sonia Hawbecker, but everybody calls me Sunny. My sister will be going to Hogwarts this year, but I'm only eight. When I was two years old your father saved my life._

Lucius paused with a sucked-in breath and sat bolt upright in his chair. Abraxas had died just over seven years ago, and before he'd passed on he'd helped to heal a little golden haired girl. That name did sound familiar! His father and Dr. Cullin had advised him not to initiate contact with the family, so he'd heeded that request. Well, now he wasn't the one initiating contact, was he? His hands quaked ever so slightly, and for the life of him he didn't know why.

_If it was my daddy I'd miss him a lot, so I think you must, too. Only a really good person gives away their life force like that. Mum says the __conviare__ spell he used killed him and I shouldn't bother you, but I wanted to tell you a secret. I think he gave me some of his magic, too. I can do stuff other kids my age can't. I thought you'd like to know._

_Sincerely,_

_Sunny Hawbecker_

With a sad, wistful smile playing on his lips, Lucius read the letter over again. He folded it carefully and tucked it into the breast pocket of his robes behind the miniature replica of his lovely wife that Narcissa had given him so many years ago. Every so often he still liked to set it on a tabletop and watch it dance, listen to it talk.

He sat in contemplative silence for a time before pulling a slip of fresh parchment from the stack to his left, then reached forward for a quill and black ink. He hesitated as the quill entered the neck of the bottle; withdrawing it, he capped the ink and took a bottle of green from his drawer.

_Dear Sonia,_

He struck a line through it. With his wand he vanished the ink completely and began again.

_Dear Sunny,_

_ How delightful to hear from you! Your letter stirred old memories that are best never forgotten. I watched my father perform the spell that saved you. I want you to understand he did it willingly, it was a great honour to him to be given such an opportunity. The __conviare__ did not kill him, dragon pox did. Please do not blame yourself._

Lucius stopped, remembering the sight of Abraxas dying of leprosy and too ashamed for the world to know. He'd made his son promise never to tell a soul, not even Narcissa or Draco, and Lucius had kept that promise out of respect for his father. As far as the world was concerned, Abraxas Malfoy had died from dragon pox.

_You said you can do special magic. My father was quite gifted in the Healing Arts, among other things. Do you mind telling me what kind of magic you believe he has bestowed on you?_

_ I wish you all the best and look forward to hearing from you again._

Here Lucius paused once more, not sure how to sign the letter. He didn't actually know the girl, so 'Your friend' might sound kind of….strange. 'Sincerely', while appropriate, sounded so formal for a little girl. 'Best wishes'—well, he'd just wished her that in the line above, no need to be redundant. At last he took a breath and jotted down his name with a flourish.

_Lucius Malfoy_

"Lucius, are you in there?" Narcissa opened the door of his study, Khala perched in her arm. The tiny girl cooed and babbled at her father. "Draco will be leaving soon, love."

"I'm finished here." Lucius walked round the desk to kiss his wife and pluck Khala from her. "My beautiful queen and my beautiful princess come to greet me. I am a very lucky man." He planted a flurry of smooches on the baby's face, sending her into hysterical fits of laughter.

"Charlie Weasley is coming to escort Draco to the training grounds."

Lucius stiffened at the name. He'd met the young man a few times over the years, and held no animosity toward him; he couldn't say the same held true for Charlie. All the Weasleys would undoubtedly hate the name of Malfoy for generations to come, thanks to the unfortunate Ginny Weasley episode. If he'd known the girl would be in danger, he never would have given her that blasted diary! He'd known only that it would open the Chamber of Secrets—the dark lord hadn't seen fit to tell him _how_ this was accomplished, or what opening the Chamber would entail. He'd gone strictly on stories passed down through the ages, tales that promised to drive the mudbloods away…again, no details on how this would occur.

"I'm still not entirely sure I trust Weasley to take care of Draco," Lucius said. He shuffled Khala over into his other arm and beckoned Narcissa to lead the way.

Narcissa stood her ground. "What? _Now_ you offer misgivings?"

"I don't believe he'd harm Draco, my dear. But I fear he may not do all he can to help him fit in, either," Lucius answered. His grey eyes lifted to the figure in the doorway. "Our son isn't a labourer, this won't be an easy transition."

"I'll be fine, Father," Draco said. He stood calmly outside the study holding Ladon's hand while the latter struggled to enter the room. "Thank you for not trying to stop me."

Narcissa walked to her sons and looked the elder in the eye. So like Lucius in his darling face, and in his determination, if not in many other ways. "If Astoria couldn't stop you, I don't think we stand much chance."

Draco tried to smile, only the pain of breaking up with the girl he loved, despite her ultimatum, was still too fresh. "We should go wait for Charlie. Come on, Brax."

He hoisted the boy into his arms. Of all his family, every one of whom he loved dearly, he'd miss Ladon the most. He could talk to Mother like a friend, and he'd miss that very much; Father…well, he loved Father, but he wouldn't miss the business training; Khala was a sweet, precious sister who made his heart warm. But Ladon was different. In a scant year and a half, they'd already been through so much in the little boy's short life. Draco had been an only child when Brax came along; Draco had battled jealousy and even hostility toward the tyke. Yet through it all, Brax had persisted in loving his big brother, in teaching his brother how to love beyond his limited scope. Not to mention how the mere baby had helped save their mother when she was near death, or the demon in the amulet. Draco shuddered; he didn't like to remember that. Nonetheless, when all was said and done, Ladon was generally a cheerful, inquisitive tot that, for lack of a better description, made Draco feel…important.

Draco gave the child an affectionate squeeze and whispered, "I'll miss you, kid. Take care of Mama and Khala."

Ladon patted Draco on the head as if _he_ were the child. "Day-co go Sharly?"

"Yes, I'm going with Charlie." It would be a waste of time to try explaining again where or why, as he'd found out from experience over the past weeks. The boy couldn't comprehend a place so far away, and the only dragon he knew was a stuffed toy he'd taken to dragging with him around the house.

"Do you have everything you need, son?" asked Lucius.

"Yes, Father. Mother helped me pack." He turned his head toward the witch, and this time he did smile. "I'll come to visit as soon as I can. And I'll write often."

"If you don't, I'll be coming over there to find out why not." Narcissa smiled pleasantly, though Lucius and Draco both recognized the steely undercurrent of truth in her words: if Draco didn't hold to his word, he'd best be prepared to find his mother storming his camp!

"If you need anything at all, I'll be there," Lucius promised quietly.

Draco nodded. If there was one thing he could depend on, it was his parents' overprotective love. And it felt nice right about now.


	15. A Tale of Two Reguli

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 15 (A Tale of Two Reguli)

**October 29, 1979**

Lucius was one of the first to arrive. The Apparitions continued steadily, some almost silently, others with a distinct 'pop', until a mass of thirty were assembled in a circle, waiting for their master. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen them all together; usually the dark lord summoned only a specific person or group. He noted with a hint of relief that Severus had taken his spot on time and Regulus, for once, must have been too sleepy to goof off.

Voldemort came out with a sour look on his pallid, taut face, making Lucius wince. It didn't bode well. When they began to approach for the typical groveling and the dark lord bellowed them away, Lucius was sure they were in for it.

The Death Eaters stood warily in their places, each one hoping he—or she—wouldn't be the one singled out for random punishment. Voldemort hissed at them to remove their masks, presumably so he could observe their faces for traces of fear or weakness, and in a flurry of movement the masks were gone. With the dim moonlight playing on their features, shadowing them, they all looked pale, skeletal.

"Because the efforts of my _devoted followers_ have produced little in the way of toppling the Ministry, I've been reduced to procuring allies wherever I can." Voldemort's slits of red glowered around the circle in a slow arc. They came to rest on Rookwood, who dropped his gaze and shuffled his feet anxiously. Ever so gradually they moved on to Yaxley, who stared almost brazenly back at him. A _crucio_ that left him sobbing on the ground taught him to heed his manners. When his gaze fell on Macnair, the man mumbled something to the effect that he was trying to honor the master by enlisting the giants. Voldemort passed him over.

Voldemort faced the group as a whole. "I have made a new alliance to aid us in destroying our enemies. They are strong, fast, vicious, and merciless. I have brought their leader here."

He waggled his fingers at the castle. A hulking figure in an ill-fitting Death Eater robe joined Voldemort in the circle. Even from Lucius' spot he could smell its foul body odor as he took in the mane of filthy gray hair and yellow fingernails. He wrinkled his nose as much in disgust as from enduring the stench.

"This is Fenrir Greyback, the leader of a large pack of werewolves," said Voldemort.

"Werewolf!" exclaimed Bellatrix, echoing Lucius' sentiment. "My lord, his kind butchered my father!"

"Silence, Bellatrix," cautioned Lord Voldemort. "You wouldn't question your master's decision, would you?"

"No, my lord," she choked out. For the first time Lucius could remember, she made no move to be close to the master. Greyback drew back his lips, revealing dirty pointed teeth. It was with obvious difficulty Bella controlled her wand hand that itched to hex the hideous man-creature into oblivion.

"On another topic, I require a house elf," said Voldemort, startling the vast majority at the radical change of subject matter. Once again his eyes roamed around the circle. Many of his Death Eaters owned house elves.

In the space of only a few seconds, Lucius debated furiously. He would be expected to offer one, of that he was certain. If he offered Sisidy, his favorite and a wonderful, competent servant, what if something happened to her? He had no idea what the dark lord had planned for the elf. If he gave up Dobby, the freakish little puke would undoubtedly screw up or otherwise do something to make Lucius look bad. What to do?

"I have one, master!" Regulus piped up. "Kreacher will do whatever you demand."

For a split second Lucius wondered about Regulus' sanity. But then again, the boy hadn't been around Lord Voldemort as long as he had, he might not suspect any harm could come to his elf.

"Excellent, Black. Bring him by next week."

"Yes, my lord. It's my pleasure," gushed the youth.

With a dismissive wave, the dark lord whirled around and stormed back into the castle, leaving a group of very disgruntled followers behind. Greyback leered around at the circle before trailing Voldemort into the castle.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 16, 2000**

_Oct. 29, 1979_

_ As I expected, Greyback did not make a favourable impression on my supporters, not that their input means anything. Not one dared raise objection except Bellatrix, who will follow me to the ends of the Earth if I require it; there is no dissension in the ranks. I am tired of waiting. If I cannot conquer the Ministry of Magic any other way, I'll take it by force. The beasts disgust me, but I do what I must to achieve my ends. They should all realise that by now._

_ I was surprised by Regulus Black—and by Lucius Malfoy. When I put forth the request for an elf, I anticipated Malfoy jumping on the chance to ingratiate himself with me, yet it was the boy who volunteered. He's a fine young specimen, his malleable mind turned to me as his lord and master. The younger ones are definitely more idealistic toward the cause than their jaded elders, who have experienced the drudgery and beating down that their pointless lives offer. On the other hand, older zealous members are more skilled. I digress._

_ At any rate, I foresee good things developing with Regulus. I must take him under my wing, nurture him along the proper path. Bellatrix will be a great help there; her cousin can learn much from her._

Tom barely controlled himself from throwing his diary, the book he was hiding it behind, and all the rest of the books onto the floor in a monumental tantrum. That horrible urchin Regulus had started out so promising, only to end up a traitor. How had that happened? The boy had died shortly after giving up his elf to the dark lord…when had his change of heart occurred? How could it have occurred in such a short space of time?

"It happened long before he gave you Kreacher," Severus said aloud.

"What do you know if it?" Tom scoffed.

"He was my friend. I warned him about you, but he wouldn't listen."

"He was devoted to the cause," Tom said. "Unlike _some_ people."

"He only joined you because he was afraid his family would disown him. When you poisoned Kreacher, he saw firsthand the extent of how vile you really are," Severus replied.

"With poison _you_ brewed, as I recall," Tom said, sneering.

"What the f—k is going on in there?" asked Marshal, edging toward the bars, but careful to stand far out of reach. Dolph had filled them in on the evening's near-escape, and he wasn't about to provide another opportunity. Goodman had, however, conveniently failed to mention anything about Snape going completely mental. That just figured, didn't it? _He_ got stuck watching the snarky halfbreed as he deteriorated into a blithering mess!

Jorab inched ahead with Marshal, stricken and confused. That was Snape talking—there was no mistaking that scornful drawl. And yet, it was Lord Voldemort, too; that high-pitched, grating voice had burrowed a tunnel into his subconscious many years ago. But…but the two voices were arguing with one another. "Maybe he's trying to trick us."

Voldemort had gone on speaking, ignoring the wizards at the bars of his cage. "I could have killed him. I should have."

"I wouldn't let you," Snape responded hotly.

Voldemort laughed, a high cackle that ran down Rab's and Marshal's spines in a cold shudder. "You've done so well preventing me up to now. And don't forget it was your potion that finished him off the first time round."

"Snape, what the hell are you playin' at?" Marshal demanded. As if just noticing he was there, Severus slowly turned his head toward the man. "Whatever it is, knock it off. I don't wanna hear your bullshit."

"You would do well to show proper deference to your master," the other hissed back. It was not Snape's voice.

Marshal instinctively backed up, pushing into Rabby and dragging him along.

"Don't let him get to you," suggested Rab. A flick of his wand put up a silencing charm between Severus and themselves. "He's trying to creep us out—"

"And doing a good job," said Marshal, eyeing Snape warily.

"—and probably hoping to intimidate us so we let down our guard." Jorab leaned against the wall before sliding down into a crouch, his eyes never leaving the cage, where Snape had gone back to avidly reading some book or other.

This sentry duty had been inconvenient enough when Snape blatantly ignored them; now they were being treated to versions of Riddle insanity. He was seriously starting to wonder how long they could go on like this, guarding day and night, hoping a cure presented itself. What if it didn't? What if Dumbledore never came up with anything? Already weeks had passed, with no word handed down from Lucius. Were they to eventually draw lots to determine who had to murder Snape? They couldn't let him live, not if Voldemort was to remain in control.

"I'd do it," said Marshal.

"What?" Rab's head jerked toward his companion.

"I'm sure you're thinking the same thing as me," Marshal said, shrugging one shoulder. "Snape's not gettin' any better, and somebody has to be the one to _A.K_. him when the time comes. I'll do it."

Rabby glanced about the room guiltily. Snape hadn't heard through the silencing charm, and there was no one else here, yet he felt positively reprehensible for what he was thinking. It was underhanded and cruel, and so like his life as a Death Eater it made him almost physically ill. He'd sworn never to take another human life…but he'd stand by and let Marshal do it in order to absolve himself. Had he really changed all that much? Apparently not.

And what of Aline? She seemed like such a nice witch, which begged the question of how she ended up with Snape to begin with, but that was neither here nor there. If Snape died, she'd be devastated; her children would never have their father. For a split second he envisioned Dolph wooing Aline and playing daddy to her babies, then the image crumbled to dust. Despite the fact that Dolph had been attracted to Aline from the outset, he had more integrity than to court the recent widow of an old comrade…he'd at least wait a year or two.

Jorab shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He couldn't be thinking this way! Snape may not be his _friend_, per se, but he'd been a comrade-in-arms for years, and he'd helped bring down Voldemort, ending all their servitude to the lunatic. Unpleasant personality aside, Snape was a decent bloke. He didn't deserve this.

The fundamental issue remained: all other considerations notwithstanding, if Marshal whacked Snape without authorization from Malfoy, there'd be bloody hell to pay. He looked at Marshal as he said, "Don't even think of doing it without talking to Lucius."

Marshal didn't need the warning. He'd seen and heard of the blond wizard mega-pissed plenty of times in the past—like in school when Roxie had lied and told everyone he'd slept with her, causing Narcissa to break up with him; he'd secretly _crucio_'d the girl in a closet for revenge. And when the goblins threw Narcissa through the Veil, Lucius had tortured one of them to death in an effort to extract information on how to bring Narcissa back. And Marshal had heard Death Eaters whispering decades ago about Malfoy using the Cruciatus on Dolohov nearly to the point of death. He held no illusions about Lucius being a pantywaist; the man may be prim and genteel in public, and he had (to date) not killed a human being, but it was not beyond the scope of reason to think he might. Executing his best friend would definitely be an offense Malfoy would seek vengeance for. Marshal did not want to be the recipient of that vengeance.

Time to change the subject. "So Dolph told me he set you up on another date. How'd that go?"

Jorab grimaced as he looked askance at the other. "Lousy, like all the others he and Narcissa keep shoving down my throat. She was pretty enough, and nice, I guess, but I just wish they'd quit already. They're trying to be thoughtful, I get that, but I've been alone all my life; I'm used to it."

"Tell them to bugger off."

"I did tell Dolph; he doesn't listen. I can't hurt Narcissa's feelings, though." He reached into his robes and withdrew a pack of cards. "Wanna play?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Is good Master Regulus sure he's alright?" Kreacher asked as he hovered over the young man sprawled on the sofa at Spinner's End, his demeanor morose. The elf picked up Reg's head, fluffed the pillow under him, and dropped the wizard's head back down.

"Kreacher, I'm fine."

"Master says he's fine, but Master won't eat, or sleep, or even stare at the muggle movie box," Kreacher argued, frowning. It made his ugly face frightening enough to scare small children. "Evil Severmort tries to murder Kreacher's Master, and Kreacher isn't allowed to protect good Master."

"You did protect me. You did a splendid job of keeping Snape from escaping, too," said Regulus. He patted the elf's bald head and forced a smile. "Go on home. I'll try to rest, okay?"

Kreacher's thin white eyebrows, so scant they were practically invisible, dipped toward his bulging eyes. "Kreacher wants to stay here. Hates stupid, evil Master Sirius."

"What about Harry? You like him, and he needs you to cook and clean."

"Oh, Kreacher forgets! Bad Kreacher!" He glanced wildly around for a place to bang his head in punishment; he'd made a beeline for the windowsill when Reg stopped him.

"No punishing yourself! I don't like it." Regulus sat up and fixed the house elf with a stern glare. "Go home. I'll be fine. You can come back in the morning."

With a sulky pout, Kreacher disapparated. Regulus sighed heavily and lay down once more. He appreciated the elf's ministrations, and the way Kreacher obviously loved him—and the way he had prevented 'Severmort' from escaping. An involuntary chuckle escaped him; he'd have to tell Lucius about that term. His merriment faded as quickly as it had begun. Lucius was going to be so angry, meaning Regulus was in for one hell of an upbraiding…and possibly worse. Lucius treated him like his kid brother, the kind of brother one smacks around when in a foul mood. He wouldn't even mind if it meant Severus was getting better…only it didn't.

He sighed again. He'd only been trying to make peace when he let himself get too close to the bars. Was this what Lucius meant when he said good deeds never go unpunished? Did he mean it was better not to do good? Malfoy did good things for his family and friends all the time, although he usually did so clandestinely—like the money given to Reg that Lucius claimed came from Bella's vault, and therefore from Narcissa. Reg wasn't dense, he saw Lucius' fingerprints all over that action; getting into Bella's vault had surely taken a lot of effort on his part. And the many ways he'd helped out Dolph and Rab and Nott and Marshal—and the money given to Nott for his family…the list went on. That didn't even include all the charitable causes he donated to. For some reason he liked to pretend he was a hardcore, mean-arse Death Eater, when anyone who'd seen him with Narcissa and his babies knew the real Malfoy.

A sharp rapping at the door brought his ruminations to a swift end. It couldn't be Kreacher coming back, he didn't knock or use the front door. He got up off the couch, wandered to the front of the house, and peeked through the window. His brows furrowed. It was Dolph.

He'd barely turned the knob when Wendolph pushed the door open and strode in, saying, "I've been looking for this place for half an hour. If I have to smell this stench-town much longer, I'm going to be sick." He slammed the door behind him.

_Would you like to come in?_ Reg thought sarcastically, though he said, "You get used to it. Did you come to yell at me?"

Dolph turned to look at him, seemingly surprised. "No. I'm sure Lucius will treat you to one of his condescending little diatribes. Why, did you want me to?"

"No! But you've never come to visit me before."

"Huh. Guess I haven't." Goodman meandered through the room, inspecting it. It was astonishingly cleaner and brighter than he'd envisioned any place Snape had lived in for years. The furniture appeared new. "The truth is, I came to thank you for being the one to give Snape that book. He was trying to provoke me into it, and I'm pretty sure he would've killed _me_. No offense, kid, but I'm more of a threat to him than you are."

"Why should I take offense?" asked Regulus, his jaw tightening. "I'm stupid _and_ a harmless f—k-up. Thanks for stopping by."

Dolph tore himself from examining the telly, which was turned off; he'd never seen anything like it, nor could he fathom what it was for. "I'm not insulting you, Reg. I've always liked you, and I never thought you were stupid. And that thing you did with Voldemort's locket, the thing that got you killed—that took a lot of guts. I don't think I would have done it. I'm here to see if maybe you want to blow off some steam. We can go to a pub somewhere not here in this putrid town."

Reg let a slow grin work its way across his face. "Sounds like a plan."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"This is your idea of a night on the town?" Dolph gestured at the dreary muggle hole-in-the-wall pub in a less than desirable section of London. Flashing lights of various colours could not disguise the aging, dilapidated structure. Youths from teens to thirty-somethings stumbled across the pavement and leaned against walls, smoking and chatting. A man staggered past them and fell to his knees near the corner of the building, where he proceeded to upchuck violently. "It's disgusting—and the clientele are worse!"

"I don't wanna go where people know me," Regulus shouted over the music blaring from the dingy establishment. "Sirius told me about this place."

Able to commiserate with the idea of not wanting to be recognized, Dolph cocked his head with a feeble shrug. It was a repugnant muggle shack, but what the hell? It was only one night, and he'd suffered far worse. They elbowed their way through the throng to the bar, where all the seats were taken.

While Regulus ordered their drinks, Dolph took it upon himself to find them a place to sit. In the furthest corner was a table strategically located to simultaneously cover their backs and watch the entrance. That would do. At the moment, it was occupied by two young men and a daft bint fawning over the larger of them. Undeterred, Dolph shoved the masses aside to make his way across the room, as he stealthily slipped his wand between his fingers, hidden up his sleeve.

Projecting a reflexive air of loathing, he bent in for the three of them to hear him. "This table is spoken for. Clear out."

"Sod off, wanker," one of the men retorted. He had cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a lip ring just begging to be ripped free by a pissed off Death Eater. "Wa's the deal wif them clothes?"

The other man and the woman glanced at Dolph's unusual garb and laughed, then promptly went back to playing kissy-face-bordering-on-X-rating. His hand slid up under her skirt as she sat on his lap.

Dolph merely smiled and said, "Have it your way."

He straightened up and started to walk away as he stowed his wand in the breast pocket of his robes. After only a few paces he halted and spun back, arms crossed, projecting an oddly dispassionate interest, as if waiting for something to happen. At first there was no noticeable reaction. Then the lip-ringed muggle began to shift in his seat. Before long, the other man thrust the girl off him and leaped off his chair with a yelp; the girl pitched forward and smacked the wall with a considerably louder shriek of indignation. By now, both men had vacated their seats and were pointing and gesticulating at the chairs while yammering at each other.

Regulus wandered up and handed a pint to Dolph. His breath smelled of the rum shot he'd knocked back at the bar. "What's going on?"

"I guess things got too hot for them," Dolph smirked. His body shook with silent laughter as one of the muggles reached a finger down to press on the wood of the chair, only to pull it away and thrust it in his mouth with a pained look of surprise. "Morons."

At length, the trio decided there was no point remaining when they couldn't sit, so they stomped across the floor into the crowd. Regulus and Dolph strolled over; a quick reversal spell from a concealed wand made the area hospitable once more, and they slid into the chairs. Dolph lounged back, tilting the chair on two legs and stretching his legs out, grinning to himself. It had been such a small thing, yet it felt so good. Rarely did he have occasion to mingle with filthy muggles, and when he did, it did his heart good to best them, even in tiny ways. Having given up torture for the sake of torture, he had to get his jollies where he could.

Regulus gulped down half his beer in one draught. "Dolph, why does everybody still treat me like a kid?"

"Because you are a kid," answered Dolph matter-of-factly.

"I came of age two years ago—well, a whole lot longer before that if you count the time I was dead, but who's counting?"

Dolph wasn't listening. His dark eyes glinted more darkly as they stared past him. "Isn't that your blood traitor brother?"

Following his line of sight to the door, Reg groaned. Yes, indeed, Sirius had not only come in, he'd caught sight of them and was headed right for them. "Great. What's he doing here?"

"Hey, Reg," said Sirius, looking directly at Dolph with what the latter assumed was intended to be an intimidating mien. "What're you doing here? And who's this?"

Returning Sirius' intimidating expression, and doing so far more effectively, through hooded lids Dolph replied, "Not that it's your business, but I'm Wendolph Goodman."

It was evident Sirius did not recognize Rodolphus Lestrange in this new man. "Never heard of you."

With sarcasm permeating his words, Dolph feigned hurt. "I'm utterly crushed."

"Sirius, why do you have to be so rude?" exclaimed Reg. "Wendolph didn't do anything to you."

"I'm not rude—okay, maybe. Sorry." He nodded at Dolph, who returned a wicked grin.

"Quite alright. My little love monkey is a tad protective, isn't he?" He scooted his chair closer to Regulus in order to stroke the lad's hair, eliciting the most delicious look of horror from Sirius.

"Knock it off," Regulus ordered. He slapped Dolph's hand down as Dolph chortled at the expression on Sirius' face. "If you're gonna lecture me on drinking, save it, Sirius. I take it you're here for more than the ambiance." Just to show he wouldn't be browbeaten, he polished off the rest of his drink and smacked his lips.

Unable to deny the accusation, Sirius contented himself with mumbling, "I'm older than you."

"Reg," said Dolph, getting to his feet, "if you want to hang out with your brother, I'm gonna take off. Next time we'll go to a decent place." So saying, he tossed some muggle money from his pocket onto the table. He had no idea how much it was, nor did he care. Simply having it on him made him feel dirty.

"Thanks, Dolph. It means a lot to me that you came over," Regulus answered. He'd ask the man to stay, but it would be too awkward with Sirius here. He solemnly shook the wizard's hand, then Dolph took his leave. "You may as well sit, Sirius. I plan on getting pissed; it could take a while."

Sirius pulled Dolph's chair away from his brother and sat down. Flagging a passing waitress, he ordered himself a beer; Regulus added a double scotch for himself to the order. "So, Reg, what's the occasion? Probably not a happy event or you'd be at a party, not in a squalid bar by yourself."

"Maybe I like squalid bars."

"Look, I'm trying to be supportive."

"No, you're not. I'm just your idiot little brother who can't do anything to please you. That's what you told Harry when I was dead, right? That I was a pathetic loser and you were ashamed of me?" Regulus grabbed the glass of scotch the instant the waitress arrived and chugged it so fast it ran from the corners of his mouth.

Sirius bit back a strong reply. He _had_ said those things, but Harry had no business telling Reg about it! "That was a long time ago. There was a lot I didn't know."

"You didn't know because you didn't care enough to listen to me or to believe what I said about the horcrux, and—"

"Alright! You're right!" Sirius slammed his glass on the table with a 'thunk'. "I didn't listen, I didn't believe you, I didn't help you when you needed me the most. I'm sorry for all of that. I wish I could change it, Reg, but I can't. I was an arsehole. Is that what you want to hear?"

"It's a start."

"I don't wanna be that person anymore. I'm trying, Reg, I really am. We've had some good times since we came back. Can't you forgive and let it go, let us be real brothers again? It's not too late for that, is it?" A pleading, soulful look reached across the table. "Just because you live in a different house doesn't mean I forget about you, or that I don't worry about you."

"Why would you worry about me?"

"Because you're my brother, you git!" Sirius growled. There was a long pause accented by the clamor in the pub. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

Regulus heaved a loud, dramatic sigh, though the edges of his lips struggled to tilt upward. "Yeah, I'd like to hear you say it."

Sirius' mouth puckered. He couldn't remember a time in his life saying those words to his brother, even when they might have made a difference. Those sentiments weren't spoken in their house, not to Sirius, at any rate—and certainly not between brothers. Would it make any difference now? It felt weird and a bit scary. He licked his lips, averted his eyes, and blurted, "I love you. Happy?"

"Actually…yeah." Reg tipped up his empty glass and scrutinized it. Where'd the liquor go? Having a light frame made getting a buzz very easy, and right now Sirius seemed to be swaying in front of him. A delighted laugh erupted out of him. "You wanna go flying?"

Sirius shook his head, understanding exactly what was going on. "I think you're already flying. Tomorrow when you're sober, we'll talk."

"That's our table," snarled a voice attached to a man with a lip ring.

The wizards looked up at the two muggle men who'd vacated the spot earlier. Regulus stood up, facing them. "Is it? Come take it."

Sirius jumped up, throwing his arm in front of his brother to keep him from advancing on the pair. Since when did his good-natured brother pick fights? "Reg, cool it!" To the muggles he said, "Take it. We're leaving."

"We can take them. I'm tired of gettin' pushed around!" Regulus protested as Sirius hauled him by the arm round the table. He yanked free; a second later, his fist collided with the larger man's ear, causing him to stumble. "And I'm tired of people tellin' me what to do!" He raised his fist again.

The lip-ringed muggle jumped at Regulus. Sirius swerved and tripped the bloke, who landed face first on the table. He clutched his brother by the collar and ran for the door, with a resisting Regulus lurching behind him. It was too far, they'd never make it before being pounced on.

"Detour," Sirius muttered to himself. A fierce tug launched Regulus down the short corridor to the loo. They burst inside and, seeing no one, Sirius disapparated with Reg in tow.

Out of habit, Sirius had come home to Grimmauld Place. The pair apparated on the front step, and Sirius hustled his brother inside. As a boy and a young man, Sirius had instigated more skirmishes than he could count…but Regulus only fought if pushed to the wall. It didn't make sense. Of course, the alcohol surely played a part here, but still. "Regulus, what is your problem?"

"Nothing," clipped Regulus. His hand hurt…that muggle had a hard head, and he wasn't used to hitting people. Yet, it had felt good to take out some frustration on the prat. If only Severus were here to take a look at it… "I'm going home. Don't worry, I'm not gonna get in any more trouble."

He whirled and ran out. Sirius thought, for the briefest second, that he'd seen tears in his brother's eyes.


	16. Conversations and a Vampire

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 16 (Conversations and a Vampire)

**August 3, 1942, Little Hangleton**

Both reeling from and infuriated by the news that his father was a detestable muggle, Tom did what any rationally-thinking sociopath would do: he stunned his Uncle Morfin, snatched the wand out of his limp fingers, and stamped out of the grimy, cobwebbed shack.

Once outside, he paused to take stock of his surroundings. The inside of the filthy house had been dark, yet out here under a grove of unkempt trees, the last vestiges of summer sunlight fading over the horizon made barely a dent. Tom picked his way past overgrown nettles and weeds to the crooked, rocky path leading to the main road, and shoved his way through a hedgerow. From here he had a choice—either walk the country lane round the hill, or scale the hill from the backside.

As the latter involved less chance of meeting muggles along the way, Tom crossed over the lane and began hiking up the long hill toward the manor house situated at the top, carrying his lamp to guide his steps. When he'd arrived, slightly out of breath, he circled the house and mounted the stairs to the front door. He would not sneak in as a thief or intruder into his own birthright! He pounded three hard thumps on the carved wooden door.

After a minute or so, a man opened the door. He gasped in an odd sort of recognition. "Y-yes?"

"Tom Riddle?" asked the boy, rather unnecessarily. The similarity between them was too striking to deny.

"Who are you?" A high, shaky pitch to his voice revealed that he knew very well who this must be, and didn't like one bit what it denoted.

"I'm Tom Marvolo Riddle," answered Tom, giving a blatantly insincere smile. "Your son."

The man in the doorway, still dressed for dinner in expensive clothing the lad could never have hoped to own, hesitated. "I have no son." He tried to close the door, only to have it thrust open, wrenched from his grasp by an unseen force.

Tom Marvolo stepped in, pushing his father backward roughly, and closed the door. Seeing that it was brightly lit inside, he set down his lamp and removed Morfin's wand from his pocket to cast a silencing charm all around the house. In an eerily quiet, cold tone he said, "We're going to talk, _Daddy_. Move."

Tom, Sr. spun and tried to run. His son stopped him with a jinx that made his legs like jelly, and he fell with a crash on the marble floor of the foyer. Flopping like a merman out of water, he struggled to drag himself over the floor with his arms while screaming incoherently.

"It will do you no good. I've come for answers, and I will have them," said the boy calmly. A flick of the wand flipped the muggle onto his back.

All at once an older couple were there, rallied by the cries of their son. They stopped cold in bewilderment at the sight of a younger version of their son standing over the whimpering man on the floor. "What is the meaning of this?" demanded the gentleman.

"Mother, Father, run! Get help!" shrieked Tom, Sr.

They had no chance to act on his advice. Tom Marvolo sent out long coils of rope that wound about them, holding them fast to one another. "I dare say your parents are as culpable as you, _Daddy_. Surely you've told them the entire story."

"Let us go, we've done nothing!" begged the woman.

"Tom, what is he talking about?" asked the older man in a tight voice.

Tom Marvolo clucked his tongue. "How very rude of me. You'll forgive me, I wasn't brought up in a fine home where proper manners are taught. Do let us move to the drawing room, where we'll be more comfortable."

So saying, he levitated his wriggling father into the large room to the left of the foyer and dropped him unceremoniously on the plush velvet sofa, where he lay helpless. The old couple, never having seen magic, protested weakly as they, too were levitated into the room, their eyes wider than human eyes were intended to open. An instant later the ropes were gone; the lad motioned firmly for the woman to sit in the velvet armchair matching the sofa, with her husband standing behind her. They obeyed woodenly. Before they had time to overcome their terror, both of them were under an Immobulus charm.

In an oily smooth tone, the boy spoke. "Much better. Now that we're all cozy, let's get down to business. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, son of this worthless lump who abandoned my mother and me. Just for kicks and grins, I'd like to hear the story from you." Tom crossed his arms, strode to the sofa so that he was able to pierce the man's eyes with his own, and glared at his father, waiting.

"What story?" howled Tom, Sr.

"_Crucio_." The word was barely more than a whisper, yet the screams it elicited made the glass in the windows vibrate. After a few seconds, he lifted Morfin's wand. "The story of how you and my mother met and parted," he prompted.

No longer motivated to lie, not knowing what else the boy was capable of, the muggle wiped at the tears of pain coursing down his cheeks. "Merope—your mother—she tricked me. One day I was passing by that hideous little shack on my horse and she was there, by the lane. She asked me if I'd like some lemonade."

"What was she wearing?" asked Tom Marvolo, smirking evilly, evidently hoping to cause the man to misspeak and receive another taste of torture.

"A-a dress—red. Kind of pretty, and I wondered where she'd got it. I knew nobody living in a hovel like that could afford such. I drank the lemonade, and then I started feeling queer, a little dizzy. When it passed, all I wanted to do was love her and hold her…." He looked pleadingly up at his son, who returned a dispassionate stare. "She was a _witch_! How was I to know? She deceived me, drugged me. We ran off and got married. Please, let us go now."

Tom Marvolo frowned and shook his head. "I ordered you to enlighten us on everything. How did it come about that you abandoned us?"

His father, acutely aware that his well-being rested in the hands of this sadistic witch-boy, frantically racked his brain for a way out of this, but found none. The servants had gone home; the gardener was half-deaf. If he hadn't responded to the last round of screams, he wasn't likely to at all. "We were happy for a time, and she became with child. After a few months, she admitted she was a witch and that she'd fed me a love potion—had kept feeding them to me, but because we loved each other so well, she was going to stop. A few days after that, I came back to my senses…that's when I left her."

"And me," Tom Marvolo emphasized in a disgusted snort. His voice grew louder as he spoke. "You left her to fend for herself, pregnant, with no means of support while you lived in luxury. She died in an orphanage after giving birth to me."

"I didn't know that," said Tom, Sr.

"And didn't care, no doubt. You made no attempt to find her, or me. I was raised there, and all the while you couldn't be bothered with your own flesh and blood!"

"You seem to have done well for yourself," mumbled his father, clawing at the sofa as he tried to rise.

"You sicken me," retorted Tom, Jr. "All my life I wondered about you, I thought you were a wizard, a man to be proud of. I imagined you'd suffered an injury that prevented you coming back for me, or perhaps you couldn't find me. Instead, you turn out to be a lowly, despicable muggle with no more sense of honour than a dog. So now I'm going to kill you."

"No, please!" the man shrieked, throwing his hands up to shield himself.

The boy raised Morfin's wand, aimed it at his father's horrified face, and uttered the Killing Curse. A jet of green light slammed into the man, and he was dead, his eyes staring blankly into space. Tom observed the inert form for a few moments, then turned to his grandparents who, although immobilized, had heard the entire conversation. "Your son came home after he'd run off. Surely he told you he'd been deceived by my mother. Did he tell you she was pregnant? I'll wager he did. No matter. You're his filthy muggle parents, and as such must die as well."

He released them from the Immobulus in order to watch their faces contort with fear. Begging for mercy in gasping squeaks, the old man bolted for the door. Tom cut him down in a heartbeat. The old woman, sobbing and hysterical, made no attempt to escape. Another _Avada_ _Kedavra_ finished her off, then Tom sauntered to the door feeling an invigorating sense of euphoria. He picked up his lamp, closed the door behind him, used a locking charm to set the bolt, then strolled around the house in the gathering dusk on his way back to the Gaunt shack.

In the semi-darkness of evening, the gloom surrounding the place was palpable. This time he didn't bother to knock, he simply crashed open the door, _petrified_ Morfin, who'd shaken off the earlier Stupefy, and cast a Lumos charm for light. He tossed Morfin's wand onto the floor beside him.

"Congratulations, Uncle. You killed three muggles tonight. When I'm done with my memory spell, you'll remember all about it. Oh, and I'll be taking that ring." He slid the ugly gold band with its black stone engraved with the Peverell coat of arms off the cretin's finger and pocketed it. He aimed his wand into Morfin's face to begin the complex memory charm.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 17, 2000**

_Aug. 3, 1942_

_ Today was brilliant. I have had my vengeance on that bastard of a father, and am well on my way to immortality. When I return to school and can safely do magic without alerting the Ministry, it shall be done!_

Tom read the short entry over again. Leaning back in his throne, he smiled to himself. It had been an exceptional day, the kind one might describe as bringing a warm, fuzzy feeling to recall it. His first kills. When he'd gone to the Gaunt hovel, it had not been with the intention to murder anyone, for he'd not anticipated gathering such incendiary information. He'd gone solely to find out about his father; that he had, and the news repulsed him. This notwithstanding, it had been a lucky stroke for him in his path to immortality, and it had not bothered him one whit to dispose of the muggle scum that tainted the blood in his veins. Absently he rubbed the finger of his right hand where he'd worn the stolen ring for a time.

_Didn't do you any good_, came a niggling taunt in his mind. _You died in the end_. Tom flared his nostrils and read the entry again. Damn that Snape! How strong could he be, to cut through the power of the diary? He'd have to read more, force that obstinate Snape brain into compliance. He'd wipe that traitor out of this brain if it was the last thing he did—which it would not be, since he fully intended to get the bloody hell out of this place and wreak a world of havoc!

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Shivering, Draco woke to the smell of cooking food wafting into the tent through the loose flap. For a brief time he felt confused, disoriented, before recalling where he was. He looked over at the tent flap; he could swear he had secured it last night when, after introductions around a large campfire, he'd retired to sleep off the exhaustion of apparating from England with Charlie Weasley. He sat up and drew his blanket about him. It was cold up here in the mountains, and his breath came out in little puffs of vapor.

Outside he heard people talking and moving about. He hadn't realized how early the folks got up here. With a disgruntled groan he got to his feet, wand in hand, and sent a warming charm throughout the tent. At least he'd be comfortable while he dressed. A few minutes later he bent down, swept aside the flap, and flung his cloak around himself as he stepped into the dawn sunlight.

Last night he hadn't been able to see much of anything; this morning, the sight took his breath away. The camp, situated near the peaks of a small mountain range east of Uzhgorod, close to the border with Romania, seemed like the top of the world. He could see for miles.

"Did you sleep well?"

Startled, Draco turned to face Charlie, who wore a thick woolen cloak and had his red hair tied in a wad at the base of his neck. "Yes, thank you. Everything is just so new."

"You'll get used to it soon enough," said the other, smiling. "Breakfast is ready, then we'll go see the dragons." It pleased him to see an expression of excitement cross those pale Malfoy features. He got the impression this Malfoy wasn't as bad as his father, no matter what Ron or the rest said.

As Draco was to discover, meals were served around the perpetually burning fire. Already three or four men, including Weasley, had eaten and gone on to their duties. Among the remaining half dozen seated, he spied the lone female he'd noticed the previous night. She swept her long blond hair back off her face as she peered up at him.

"Hello, Draco," she said. Had she just winked at him? No, it must be the early morning light playing tricks.

"Hi, Oksana," he replied, and sat down beside her on the spot she was patting for him. Was it his imagination, or did the bloke on her other side give him a particularly scathing glare?

"You remember my name," Oksana said, looking delighted.

Draco smiled back at her. She had a pretty accent…and a pretty face, if he cared to admit it. "You are the only witch here."

"Eat. You haf work," interrupted the glaring young man in a snarl. He shoved a forkful of beans into his mouth.

Oksana elbowed him in the side. "Sashko, don't be rude."

"I thought your name was Oleksandr," said Draco, a bit bewildered.

"It is," answered a man across the campfire. He was tall and lanky with thick black hair that hadn't been combed in days. "Sashko is a…how you say?...affectionate name."

Ah. Enough said. Unless Draco missed his guess, Oleksandr had a thing for Oksana—and for all he knew, she returned the sentiment. Best to tread lightly on enemy…er, unfamiliar ground. He tried to inconspicuously slide away from the girl, though he could hardly tell her to stop talking to him, which she seemed quite inclined to do. Besides, he liked her chatter; all the men seemed a little standoffish.

When breakfast had ended, the black-haired man motioned to him. "Come with me. I show you dragons."

Without waiting for a response, he started to walk to the left of the tent camp. Draco trotted to catch up with him as they passed through a copse of trees. On the other side, in huge pens built of thick iron bars, resided three of the most beautiful dragons Malfoy had ever seen. Not that he'd had contact with many, but he'd seen a crop of them in Gringotts when he and Father had let them all loose. Xerxes, a gorgeous specimen in his own right, and Xerxes' mate—the lovely red shrew—would fit in very well except for their colouring, which was stunningly bright in comparison.

Draco moved to the first pen without thinking; his feet had a will of their own. The dragon was a muted gold all over, from its cat-like ears and delicate long snout to the tips of its broad wings and spiked tail. Only its eyes, a vibrant blue, shone out. He stretched a hand through the bars and the dragon nipped at him, causing him to jerk back. The animal vibrated in a fair imitation of laughter.

"You think that's funny?" Draco cooed, grinning. It actually was kind of clever of the creature. He closed his eyes to concentrate, instinctively leaning in toward the dragon.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" exclaimed Charlie as he yanked the boy away from the cage.

"Trying to communicate," he answered indignantly, shaking off Weasley's grip. "Isn't that why I'm here?"

"You need to go slow. These are dangerous animals." He rounded on the man who'd brought Draco over. "Ihor, you're supposed to watch him."

Ihor gave a noncommittal shrug. "I think he know what he is doing."

Draco studied the dragon up and down; it snorted a tiny burst of fire from its nostrils as it stared back at him. "She won't hurt me. I can tell."

"Well, I can't, and I'm responsible for you. Follow the rules or go home."

Sulking, Draco nodded. He trailed after Charlie, past the next cage holding a pitch-black dragon very similar in structure to the gold one. It stamped its spiked tail, reminiscent of a knight's mace, on the ground menacingly. _Omen of death_ ran through Draco's mind. He'd read somewhere that a black dragon served as such an omen. He sensed none of the playfulness or friendly air of the previous dragon.

The third animal, smaller than the other two and of a different type, poked its blunted snout between the bars to gaze at the people. Its unpretentious scales glistened a dark, deep green, flecked with black. A ridge of black horns ran the length of its tail. Charlie stopped in front of it and gently stroked its cheek. "This one is young, more pliable than the older dragons. We've had no reports of him trying to hurt anyone."

"If the youngsters are more easily trained, why not train only young ones?" asked Draco as he approached.

"The parents protect the nests, they're hard to snare," Charlie answered with a shrug. "I've told anyone who will listen that we ought to capture babies and raise them, but they say it's suicide to invade a nest. Do you sense anything?"

_Smooth change of subject,_ Draco drawled internally. Did all the Weasleys possess the inability to focus? He let his cheek rest on that of the dragon and closed his eyes. Images of rats and chunks of meat came to mind. "He's hungry." For a long moment there was nothing at all, then a sudden image of flying high above a plain washed over him, along with a profound sadness. Although Draco couldn't say for sure what it meant, it touched him in a way that he found very unsettling. "Maybe you should just feed him. I'll try again afterward."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Later that evening, after Draco had gone to his tent, three figures still sat around the fire, sipping coffee and chatting. Oleksandr stood abruptly. "I'm going to bed."

Not immune to the behaviour of the man, who'd been cross and waspish all day, Oksana said, "Scho za muha tebe vkusyla?" (_What fly bit you?_)

"Meni ne podobaietsia koly ty ves chas vytrischaieshsia na tsioho novoho khloptsia," (_I_ _don't like the way you keep eyeing that new guy_) he retorted.

"To i scho? Ya mozhu robyty vse scho zahochu," (_So? I can do whatever I want_) Oksana snapped.

"Ne todi, koly ty zi mnoiu!" (_Not if you're with me!_) he returned, scowling broadly at her. "Ty skahzala, scho my teper rahzom." (_You said we're together now_.)

"Rahzom?" (_Together?_) interjected Ihor, laughing. "Ta vona vzhe bula z polovynoiu cholovikiv tut." (_She's already been with half the men here._)

Oksana flung her coffee cup at Ihor's head. He ducked, chortling. Her frown bespoke wishing there had still been hot liquid in it. "Ishov by ty do bisa, Ihor!" (_Go to the devil_, _Ihor!_)

"Spravdi?" (_Really?_) he taunted. "Ta takoho bisa yak ty treba ische poshukaty." (_Such_ _devils as you are hard to come by_.)

The witch got up and stormed away, with Oleksandr on her heels. Finding himself alone, Ihor collected the mugs with a wave of his wand and set them to washing themselves in a tub of water nearby, then meandered off to his tent.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It had been a long while since Regulus had darkened the doorway of the Prince estate…since he'd visited anyone, actually. He hadn't realized what a hermit he was becoming. He rapped on the door and waited; Snape owned no house elves, so if Aline was home, she'd have to get the door herself.

"Regulus, how nice to see you." Aline pulled him into an embrace.

Grinning, he backed off and patted her tummy. "Let's not squish the kids. So how are you doing?"

Aline gave a lopsided grimace as she guided him into the parlor. "Physically, I feel fat and off balance, my back aches, and I'm developing a penguin-like waddle. Emotionally, not so good."

"I'm sorry," murmured Reg. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No." She carefully lowered herself into a chair and gestured for him to sit. "I'm the one who should apologize. I shouldn't complain to you."

"Why not? We're friends, aren't we?" he argued.

"Well, yes…but nobody wants to hear it, especially when they come to visit."

Reg tilted his head. If friends weren't there to listen to their comrades bitch and moan, who else was there? "I don't mind, honestly. I'd rather you don't pretend, or feel like it puts me off. You and Sev are two of the people I can open up to without feeling like a whiny baby myself. I mean, Snape might roll his eyes and make snarky remarks, but he listens without treating me like a little kid."

"Thank, Reg. That means a lot." How long had it been since anyone talked to her about Severus in a way not related to what had recently befallen him? How long since she'd heard anyone refer so candidly to his surly personality—and do so in a fond way? She lumbered to her feet only seconds before he reached her to help her up. "I was about to have tea, one of the British customs I enjoy. I'll bring it in here."

She left him alone in the room, where he gazed around at the décor. Some of the furniture was obviously antique, maintained in pristine condition. The window dressings and rugs were definitely modern; they helped liven up the place. Evidently Aline had made changes to this place as well as Spinner's End.

"Here we go, tea and cookies—sorry, tea and _biscuits_," she announced, smiling as she set the tray on the coffee table between them and reseated herself. "So, Reg, what brings you here?"

The youth, who'd snagged a biscuit and bit off half of it already, washed it down with a large gulp of hot tea. "Ah, ah, ouch!" he yelped, fanning his mouth frantically. Grinning sheepishly, he said, "Um, it sounds kind of selfish, now that I think of it. I just…I feel closer to Severus when I'm with you."

"I think it's sweet," she answered softly.

"I'm really glad he found you. He's had so much crap in his life, and he deserves to be happy. You make him happy," said Reg bluntly. He shifted awkwardly in his chair. "Did Lucius tell you what happened yesterday?"

Aline nodded, looking grim. Back to business. "It wasn't Severus who tried to kill you—"

"I know," interrupted the lad, holding up a hand for peace. "But it makes me sad and scared when I think he isn't getting better. Hasn't Dumbledore been trying to find a cure at all?"

"Severus _is_ getting better" insisted Aline, perhaps a tad too forcefully. She glanced away lest he catch the telltale gleam in her eye. She sounded irrational defending Severus, she was smart enough to know that! How she wished she could tell Reg about the countercurse on the diaries, but she could not. It was simply too risky; Severus or Tom might see it in his eyes and cease reading the diaries. But he could be told something else. "After you left, when Marshal and Jorab were there, it seems Severus and Tom were quarreling."

"With each other?" Okay, that was a new one.

"Yes. That can only mean Severus is getting stronger. Don't look at me like that, I'm not making this up!"

"I-I don't—I didn't say—think you were," Regulus stammered.

"It's okay. It's a complicated situation, and I get worried, too," said Aline, sighing. "But there's nothing we can do, so can we change the subject? What have you been up to?"

"Besides getting hammered and starting a fight in a pub?" asked Reg, ducking his head. "And getting lectured by Lucius for letting Voldemort touch me, then for the pub incident? Not too much."

Brows knit, Aline sipped at her cup and leaned forward a bit. "Why were you drinking and fighting?"

Reg heaved his shoulders upward and dropped them almost in a sign of defeat. "Lucius says I consistently use alcohol as a crutch because I have no coping skills." The way he recited the phrase sounded like he was repeating verbatim what he'd been told. "He doesn't understand what it's like."

"He's upset over Severus, too," said Aline.

"No, I don't mean that. He doesn't know what it's like to not belong in this world. I think maybe you can relate a little, with that clairvoyance that always made you feel like you were abnormal. I'm not ungrateful to be alive again, but it's not the same; everything is changed, everyone is different—except me. My parents are dead. All my old friends—Severus, Nott, Jack—they're practically my father's age, and they all have families. My new friends like Bayly and Theo and Harry all have girls, too. I feel like a fifth wheel when I'm out with them."

"How about your brother? Can't you talk to him about it? He's been through the same thing," Aline suggested.

Regulus laughed mirthlessly. "I've never seen Sirius coping so well. Death agreed with him, I guess. He used to be a total loser, now he's got a bird and he's in training to be an auror. Wow, I sound like a jealous, spiteful arse." By now his tea had grown cold, and he emptied it in two swallows. "Aline, I'm sorry. I came to visit, not to act like a prick."

"You're not, Reg. You're cute, kind, generous, brave—quite a catch for some witch when the time is right," said Aline.

"See? That's why I like you!" Reg joked, winking at her.

"You know, if you got a job, it would keep you occupied," she went on, smiling at him. "You'd meet new people, and I think you'd come to feel more a part of this new world instead of looking in from the outside. Come to think of it, I spoke to Harry a couple weeks back, and I think I know the perfect job for you…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Cozied up on a stone bench on the balcony outside their bedroom, Narcissa and Lucius relaxed into each other. One long day had been made more trying by two clingy children missing 'Day-co', and now that the tykes had finally drifted off to sleep, the adults needed to unwind. After a good, long snogging session, they rested against one another in a comfortable silence.

Narcissa pointed with a lazy thrust of her chin toward the gardens below, illuminated by the moonlight. "It looks so beautiful at night. We should spend more time out here in the fresh air."

"It is lovely," Lucius agreed, tightening his arms around her. "But nothing compares to you."

"Flatterer," she said, though she cuddled against his chest and hugged him fiercely. "I wonder how Draco is doing."

"I'm sure he's fine, honey." He kissed her forehead, then laid his cheek on her hair. He wondered about Draco, too, but he'd rather not let Narcissa know. There was so much going on already it made his mind swim.

"Something is bothering you," stated Narcissa. She lifted up to look in his adorable grey eyes.

Knowing it would do no good to deny it, as his wife sensed his moods like a barometer, Lucius let out a long, tired breath. "It's Severus, and Aline, and now Regulus. Everyone looks to me, which ordinarily is a good thing, only…I feel like I'm expected to fix everything, and obviously I can't. Severus is improving, albeit slowly, yet we can't even tell the ones guarding him. They're becoming antsy, they think this is a waste of time. It could be months before Severus is himself again, and meanwhile Aline is going to have her babies. Now Regulus is behaving badly and I don't know what's got into him."

"He's upset over his friends, I'd wager. Same as you," came a voice from above. The couple looked up at Mateo hovering in the air, smiling down at them. The _sangrista_ drifted down to sit on the balcony railing, where he propped one booted foot up and left the other dangling.

"How long have you been there?" demanded Lucius, scowling. Why could his uncle never announce his presence like a normal person…vampire?

"Long enough to watch you playing kissy-face," the vampire smirked. "Well, technically, I was over in the orchard, but I could hear you anyway. Merlin's britches, don't you two ever take a break?"

"About the same as you and Tonia," Narcissa shot back shrewdly. "We haven't seen either of you for months. Did she come with you?"

Mateo pursed his lips, becoming unusually solemn. "I came here last night at the full moon, as I often do, to search for werewolves."

Lucius eyed him up and down. "You're not splattered in blood, that's a good sign."

"Yes, well…we're having trouble with werewolves back home. I had to make sure you were alright," Mateo admitted.

"Buitrago doesn't tolerate them in his territory," said Lucius.

"Precisely, which makes this all the worse," said Mateo, his light blue eyes flashing with hatred. "A group of them came into our territory as humans; they spent the month seeking out anyone who could direct them to us. One of the humans in the underground mansion opened the door to them, and on the full moon they attacked."

"Oh, my God!" Narcissa gasped. "Is Tonia alright?" Her fingers squeezed Lucius' hand painfully.

"Yes—she's a renowned werewolf slayer, as you recall. Luckily, she and Yadiro were there; I was on duty in the perimeter region, I'd no idea this was taking place. They and the other _sangristas_ fought the pack, killing them all. Unfortunately, three of our humans were badly wounded, bitten...Yadiro had to execute them. One of our _sangristas_ was also murdered. Because all of the werewolves perished, we couldn't question them to find out whether there are more, where they're hiding…nothing."

"So you have no idea who sent them, or why?" inquired Narcissa.

"None. We don't know that they _were_ sent. There's much animosity between our kinds, and it's possible they simply wanted to take us out."

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Lucius.

"I don't think so, but thank you," said Mateo in all earnestness. "From the sound of it, you've got your hands full with your own problems. What's happened to Severus? You said he's improving. Was he injured?"

"It's a long story," said Lucius.

Mateo crossed his arms, cocked his golden blond head, and waited. "I've got all night."


	17. Horcrux of the Matter

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 17 (Horcrux of the Matter)

**September 6, 1942**

Over a month had passed since the triple murders at the Riddle Manor. Now back in school, where he was free to perform magic without concern about the Ministry, Tom had bided his time to find the perfect opportunity for what he needed to do. He'd breathed not a word of his summer activity to his companions, nor of the task before him, for in the grand scheme of things he understood something very basic: people could not be trusted. Used, manipulated, cajoled, flattered—but not trusted.

He'd paced the hallway next to the Room of Requirement in a nervous tizzy several times over the course of the day until it was clear of students and the hidden doorway opened for him—only him. How had it come to pass that no one else had ever encountered this room? If they had, surely in their foolishness they'd have broadcast it to all, hoping for adulation. Not to mention it would be included in the known attributes of the castle. But it wasn't. It was secret…it was his alone.

The room was perhaps five meters square, bare stone walls and floor, no type of adornment or furniture. Exactly what Tom needed. The boy dropped his book sack on the floor, fell to his knees, and shakily undid the clasps in order to rummage inside. His hand fumbled through his schoolbooks, shoving them impatiently aside, and withdrew a plain, brown-covered diary he'd acquired in a common muggle shop some time back.

Trembling from excitement, anticipation, and a spot of fear, he got to his feet and pulled his wand from his robe pocket. Although he'd done it a hundred times over the last weeks, he ran the spell through his mind once more; safe to say he could recite it in his sleep. He set the tip of the wand against his temple and said in a firm, clear voice:

"_Life's been taken, a sacrifice,_

_given through a deadly vice._

_Twist the force, impart to me_

_a fragment of immortality."_

The pain that struck his head and radiated through his body caused him to drop like a log to the floor, screaming piteously and thrashing like those he held under the Cruciatus. Unlike the Unforgivable curse, this spell began to contort his very body; a hump-like bulge formed under his shirt, directly below his neck, and worked its way down his spine very slowly. Were he not keenly aware of every nerve of his being crying out for mercy, he'd have deduced that his limbs had been ripped free from their sockets and tossed into a corner, leaving room for him to roll about, barking shrieked gasps, while a horrible strong suction tore his soul asunder.

How long he suffered the agony before succumbing to unconsciousness was unclear, nor did he know how long he lay on the cold stones after he awoke. His head ached as if he'd been beaten soundly with a bat, and his heart beat erratically yet too strongly. He looked down to see it thumping against his ribcage like a weasel trying to escape a closed burrow. If his watch were to be believed, he'd been in this room for no less than four hours.

At this point, even many of the most hardcore wizards would have reconsidered and given up the quest to create a horcrux, fearing that to continue the spell would certainly kill them, thus defeating the entire purpose. Not so Tom Riddle. If others in history had created horcruxes—and he knew they had—he could do it, too. He was smarter than the lot of them; if they managed to endure, he would endure.

Tom sat up, wiping a film of tears and vomit from his face. Only now he noticed he'd been lying in a puddle of his own sick. The knowledge made him bend forward and heave again. At last he scooted back and got unsteadily to his feet. He dared not clean himself with his wand, not in the middle of the spell, lest he have to start all over, so he merely wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

Clutching the diary for dear life, he aimed the wand at the book. In a voice as steady as he could manage, he intoned:

"_Shard of soul, while yet extant,_

_in this book I bid thee implant._

_Forevermore herein reside,_

_ensure my life shall yet abide."_

Another round of excruciating pain, like a serrated knife thrust into his skull and yanked out attached to his brain, flooded him. A blinding flash of light that literally left him temporarily blind engulfed the room. Lack of sight being painless, it was the least of Tom's worries. He felt every cell of his being screaming…perhaps because he was once more collapsed on the floor howling in agony and contorting in unnatural spasms.

When the torment subsided enough to allow him to breathe almost normally, he rolled over and barfed again until he felt certain his stomach was abandoning his body by way of his throat. He hurt so badly in every part of him, externally and internally, that he almost wished he _were_ dead. On the bright side, his vision was returning.

It was nearly done. Only two more lines. Tom cringed and swallowed hard over his raw throat. He'd not yet sealed the deal, so to speak, and he'd already suffered immeasurably worse than he'd ever dreamed. Whoever wrote in that volume he'd read, '…the making of a horcrux carries the potential for unpleasant side effects' should be horsewhipped, then flayed! Nonetheless, he wasn't a quitter. He'd come this far, he'd go the distance.

"_I hereby make known my command._

_Let it be so."_

He braced himself for another episode of hell on Earth. To his dismay, the book merely shimmered briefly, then returned to its normal state. There were no more screams, no additional afflictions. Retching still, he crawled into the corner farthest from his sick puddles. His arm shaking uncontrollably, he performed several _Scourgifies_ on himself and his clothing. Surprisingly, the diary had been spared somehow, for he found not a spot on it. He dragged himself up to lean against the wall.

He'd done it; he'd created a horcrux. Now he needed to find a safe place to hide it. Were he not so exhausted and aching, he'd have gloated at length, but that would have to wait until he felt better….he sincerely hoped he was going to feel better.

Staggering to his feet, he collected his book bag, slipped the diary inside, and exited through the door opening magically for him. Out in the corridor, he leaned heavily on the wall for several minutes, as his legs seemed to have forgotten how to walk. He felt vaguely disoriented. Students passed him by, most with little more than a glance.

With his head down, he hadn't even seen the pack of Gryffindors approaching. They moved on by, shooting disapproving glares at one of their own who broke from the gang. Minerva advanced on the ailing boy, her face registering alarm. "Tom? Are you alright?"

Tom raised his eyes to look at her through horribly bloodshot eyes. His face, scrunched from pain, softened a touch. "I think someone hexed me when I wasn't looking. I'll be fine." His voice sounded hoarse and alien to his ears.

"You should go to the infirmary. Let me help you." She'd just begun to put an arm around him.

"Is she bothering you, Riddle?" Claudius Lestrange sauntered up, casting a hateful glower at the girl. He'd never forgiven nor forgotten how the chit had rejected him years ago.

Mulciber and Nott, who'd arrived with Claudius, took up positions on either side of Tom, bracing him on their shoulders and effectively blocking Minerva out of the picture. Tom eyed Lestrange coolly. "Mind your manners, Lestrange." To Minerva he said, "Thank you. My friends can help me from here."

Minerva, feeling oddly out of place among this group, backed off a touch. "You take care, Tom."

"I will." He paused, biting back words trying to escape unbidden. In his impaired state, he had a hard time maintaining all his usual self-protections. "I'll see you."

After she'd gone, Nott asked quietly, "Where have you been? We've been looking for you."

Mulciber elaborated, "You said you'd be back in a little while. It's been almost six hours."

"And why can't you walk?" added Claudius.

Six hours? Well, in all fairness, he did feel like he'd been tortured for a prolonged period, so that was probably right. "I had a task to complete. It took longer than expected, and I was injured. Take me back to Slytherin House—and keep your mouths shut."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 18, 2000**

_Sept. 6, 1942_

_ I have accomplished what few in the history of wizardkind have ever done: I have created a horcrux. Until enduring the misery associated with it, I had wondered why more people don't do it. After all, no one wants to die. Having performed the spell, I can safely say only a witch or wizard of exceptionally strong mind, body, and will could live through the incantation._

_ This all brings to mind an intriguing question. Has anyone ever made more than one horcrux? Is it even possible to do so? I know of only two people who might answer that question, and Dumbledore cannot be trusted with such an inquiry. I still feel ill at ease when he is around. Slughorn, on the contrary, is quite knowledgeable and willing to share…if approached in the right manner._

_ Minerva offered to help me. Of all the students who passed me by when it was evident I was not well, only she offered. I don't understand her._

The entry ended abruptly. Tom continued to stare at the page. Why had everything always come back to Minerva? She'd never made any overt displays of affection for him, she'd done little more than act like a caring fellow student. Perhaps the fact that the rest of his fellow students didn't give a diddly-damn about him made the comparison more stark.

_Why would anyone like you? You are now and always were a self-absorbed, sadistic git. You may have fooled your teachers, but your comrades saw through you._

"Shut up," said Tom, clenching his jaw.

Bayly and Theo looked up from their game of cards. Neither of them had spoken a word for at least five minutes. They'd been warned not to get sucked into an altercation with Snape, and were very inclined to follow their orders.

"Why are there no adults here?"

This time both youths' heads jerked toward the entrance, where Mateo had drifted in, silent as a specter. Realizing who it was, they relaxed and exchanged glances with one another, rolling their eyes.

"We _are_ adults," said Theo, rising from his seat.

Patronizing amusement flitted over the vampire's features. "You know what I mean—skilled Death Eater types. Lucius isn't one to send boys to do a man's job."

When Theo started to retort, Bayly waved him off. "Never mind, Theo. He's over three hundred years older than us. He's not going to see us as grown up." To Mateo he added, "Mr. Nott is coming to take over for Theo. He'll be here soon. Did Mr. Malfoy send you?"

While floating up to the bars, feet barely skimming the floor, Mateo pointed at Snape as his answer. He touched down so close the boys sent expressions of alarmed distress his way, though they wisely kept their opinions to themselves. He was a _vampire_, after all; he was physically stronger by far than Snape or Riddle or any other human, and he couldn't exactly be killed in this situation, since there was no wooden stake, or sword to cut off his head.

"Hello, Severus," Mateo greeted. "Got yourself in quite a pickle, I see."

Snape walked over to the bars, grimacing. "What do you want?"

"I see your personality is as charming as always. But then again, I'm probably talking to Tommy."

Snape spat at him. Only very quick reflexes spared Mateo the indignity of spittle in the eye.

"Tommy it is." Mateo leaned in so his nose touched the bars, and he bared his fangs in a jeering smile. "I hear Severus is fighting you, that he breaks through on occasion. That must drive you crazy—sorry, I mean more bloody freaking insane than you already are."

Snape fixed his black orbs on Mateo's twinkling blue eyes, his visage registering frustration and fury.

"Legilimency only works on living people, you pillock. I'd think after being such a deep, dark, brilliant wizard, you'd know that!" To anyone who knew Mateo, it was evident he enjoyed receiving those glares that could stop a clock, were one available. "I, on the other hand, can do this."

His eyes, already locked on Snape's, glinted ever so slightly. In that brief moment, he established a hypnotic connection. He reached one hand through the bars and jerked Severus forward, slamming his face unceremoniously against the cold metal. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Lord Voldemort," said a high, wooden voice.

"Severus Snape," drawled another, deeper, richer voice.

Mateo paused, intrigued. Merlin's britches, this was bizarre! When Lucius had told him of the irregular problem, he'd been skeptical. "Voldemort, you will relinquish control of Snape's mind."

"I can't. It is my mind as well. His brain has been reconfigured to the pattern of my own."

"Can you undo what has been done?"

"No. Dumbledore is trying to think of a way, but he shan't succeed."

Damn. So much for an easy solution. Lucius had mentioned that they'd attempted something, and it was working, but that he was not to speak a word about it. "Severus, I order you to fight him as hard and as often as possible."

"Yes, I really need your lame suggestion. I'd never have attempted it on my own," said Snape drolly, sounding every bit like the Snape that Mateo knew.

"Just do it," snapped the _sangrista_. He let the wizard go and turned to the young men, who were gawking in awe. "I gave it a shot, yeah?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Mateo had dismissed Theo and stood guard with Bayly until the elder Nott arrived, every so often throwing out a barb to irritate the prisoner. Once he'd left, Bayly sat down again, by turns encouraged and saddened by the vampire's visit. He didn't like to see Professor Snape picked on, yet it seemed to be helping…or maybe that was just the hypnotism. He really didn't know.

He sighed. He was so tired of this—the waiting and hoping, keeping vigil as sentry, watching his beloved mentor enslaved to a madman. Not only was it draining on body and soul, it hurt more than he cared to acknowledge. And keeping it secret was getting very difficult; the only people he could truly talk to about it were Aline and Mr. Malfoy. He hated to wound Aline, to see the pain in her eyes while she watched as helplessly as himself. If he could talk to Gloria, maybe it wouldn't seem so overwhelming. He didn't like lying to her, if only by omission, but Mr. Malfoy had been explicit. No one, not even Mrs. Malfoy, knew about the countercurse on the diaries.

Nott snapped his fingers in front of the lad four times before Bayly looked up at him distractedly. "What are you thinking about? You were a million miles away."

"Not quite that far," Bayly answered, smiling shyly. Mr. Nott was a nice fellow, unlike Marshal, but he still felt a little intimidated by the fact that he'd killed people in the past. If anything, his being nice kind of made it worse. "I was just thinking of my wife. She doesn't understand why we don't put Professor Snape in a mental hospital, or why I have to come here."

The older man nodded knowingly. "My wife is the same. She understands my loyalty to my friend, but she thinks this is a waste of time." He glanced back at Snape, who was engrossed in his books once more. "I'm starting to think she's right."

Bayly shook his head vehemently. "He's getting better. Mr. Malfoy said he's trying to resist, and that's a good sign."

"I respect Lucius, but he's not a Healer."

"He's smarter than you are," a drawled voice drifted in to the pair. "Listen to him."

Both Nott and Bayly faced the cage, stunned. Apparently Snape/Tom had been listening in on their conversation after all. Nott sent him a rude hand gesture. "You're not going to trick us again."

"It's not a trick."

"It's a treat," chortled a higher voice. The face, Snape's face, sneered in a way very unlike Snape.

"Shut the f—k up!" Severus exploded.

"Or what? You'll bore me to death?" Tom retorted, laughing.

A shiver of déjà vu ran down Nott's back. The dark lord used to cackle that way when he was torturing someone. How he hated that laugh! "Yeah, definitely getting better," he said dryly.

"He is!" Bayly exclaimed, becoming animated. "Voldemort had complete control at first, but Professor Snape is fighting him. Don't you see it?"

Nott gazed over at Snape, who was still arguing with himself, and his heart sank into his stomach. "I wish I knew what I was seeing."

"Bayly!" The name was almost a shout. The boy looked over warily, expecting a cruel tirade from Riddle. "I didn't mean it—what I did to you."

_What I did to you._ Surely he referred to the vicious assault in the hallway at Hogwarts. Only that hadn't been Snape, not really…his body had been controlled by a maniac, that's all. The one speaking now was Professor Snape; Voldemort was too arrogant, he would not apologize for that, not even to try trickery again. Bayly inclined his head in a nod. "I know sir. I don't blame you."

"Help me."

The pleading tone wrenched at Bayly's heart. If only he could tell him the truth, that they _were_ helping him! But they couldn't, not without telling Voldemort as well. "We're trying," he croaked.

"Help me," Tom mimicked with obvious derision. "They can't help you, traitor. In fact, when I get out of here, I'll butcher them all and make you watch."

Unable to bear it anymore, Bayly got up. "I need to go outside and get some air, Mr. Nott. Okay?"

"Don't worry about me, kid. This is gettin' kind of interesting." He sat down, propped his feet on the table between the two chairs, and lounged back to watch the show. It looked like Snape was coming through after all, and he'd like to see who won.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 25, 2000**

Among the less than dozen people at the camp, Oksana was the only female. In the week since Draco had arrived, she'd been his steady companion, she'd been friendly and helpful—certainly a welcome change from the majority of the men, who either ignored or merely tolerated him, or Oleksandr, who exhibited sullen and outright rude behaviour. Draco still wasn't sure of the relationship status between Oleksandr and Oksana, if any existed at all. From the way they argued violently and at length in their own language, it could go either way, so he kept his distance from the young woman…well, as much as he could when she was the one explaining things and translating for him.

So far he liked it here. Sure, it was a far cry from living like a prince, and he'd be embarrassed to be seen sleeping in a tent like a pauper (even if he _had_ charmed the sleeping bag into a bed and magically enlarged the space to three full rooms), but the air was crisp and clean, the view was outstanding, and he got to talk to dragons. He wasn't going to complain.

When the smallest dragon, the one he'd nicknamed Emerald, saw him approaching, he stamped his front paws and let out a burst of happy fire, nearly singeing one of the handlers walking by. Draco smiled. He had not, as yet, been permitted to interact with the other two dragons, but he found great joy in spending time with Emerald.

"Hey, there, Emerald," he said, petting the creature's snout. The dragon bobbed his head in greeting and nuzzled the human's chest through the bars of his cage.

If there was one thing Draco despised at the camp, it was the restriction of the dragons. Most of the day they were confined to their cages, which were barely large enough to turn around in comfortably, let alone get any exercise. He could hardly blame the poor animals for fighting their handlers. He'd been in Azkaban only a short time, yet the memory of a small cell with no chance of escape was forever indelibly imprinted on his mind.

Another impression, one he'd seen several times since melding his mind with Emerald, rolled into his brain. Flying, open, free over a meadow…at this point, Draco understood, and he empathized with the dragon. He'd talk to Charlie later and see if they could arrange for a less restrictive environment. It would be helpful in training if the dragons didn't resent the humans so much.

"Is he talking to you?" Oksana said, smiling in a way that made the wizard wonder if she was mocking him.

"He's a dragon, he doesn't talk," Draco answered guardedly. He continued to stroke Emerald's ears and face, not looking at the witch as he stated, "You don't have much respect for what I'm doing."

There followed a pregnant pause during which he'd hoped for a negation of his observation. At last Oksana said, "I haf never heard of peoples talking with dragons. Nobody here understands, except Charlie." The implication seemed to be that only an outsider was taken in by the hype.

"I thought your legends and folk tales spoke of people interacting with them." Draco chanced a sidelong glance at her.

Again a too-long moment of silence. "They are stories."

Draco's jaw tightened. She didn't believe him. By default, that meant she considered him a fraud at best, and more likely just a plain liar. The rest of the camp must feel the same. Why in hell's name would he come all this way to pretend to communicate with dragons? For the money? _He_ was paying _them_ to be here! For the adoration it earned him? He snorted involuntarily. "Do you also not believe in parselmouths because you've never seen one? Lord Voldemort was one, and Harry Potter. I'm sure there are a few others in the world. Being rare doesn't mean being impossible."

"I'm not intend to make you angry," she replied softly.

Draco rounded on her, his lips pinched, his eyes hard. "I thought you, of all people—a _dragon handler_—would try to understand. My parents, my friends—I can see them doubting the validity of this talent. It means nothing to them. But you work with dragons every day! Wouldn't it be advantageous to know what they're thinking and feeling? Don't you even care?"

A vivid flash of anxiety pierced his mind and he turned back to the dragon, who was whinnying, his doleful eyes locked on Draco. He'd begun stamping restlessly and pawing at the dirt. The young man closed his eyes to project with all his might an image of flying with Draco on his back, forcing a sentiment of calm to flow through. Almost immediately the animal quieted.

"Draco, I don't say is not real," Oksana began, but he cut her off.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to spend some time here. Alone." He purposely avoided facing her. By the time he did turn around, she was gone.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Because he'd rather go hungry than instigate a round of everybody-pick-on-the-new-guy at supper, Draco went to his tent, crestfallen. He'd known it wouldn't be easy in this place; he hadn't anticipated actual resistance from the locals. Oksana had probably told them all by now that he was a surly prat…or however they said it in Ukrainian…and surely they'd want to get in their insults, let him see the full extent of their derision for what he was trying to accomplish. If it weren't for how much he cared for Emerald, how much he wanted to help all dragons, he'd pack up and go home now. For the first time, he fully comprehended how others at school had felt when _he_ was the one leading the ridicule. It made him ashamed.

"Draco?" Oksana pulled aside the flap to his tent, bending to look in. Without waiting for an invitation, she came in and set a plate of food on his nightstand. "You must be hungry."

"Thank you," he answered, not knowing what else to say.

"I am sorry." She stood awkwardly by the bed, where he sat looking at the dirt floor. "Today I saw you with the young dragon, Emerald. He was upset, and you made him relax. I still don't understand, but I belief you."

Tempted to lash out at her for refusing to believe without seeing, Draco simply nodded. "I'm glad."

Before he had time to react, Oksana lunged at him, clasped his head between both of her hands, and planted a hard kiss directly on the lips. When she released him and hurried out, he was too stunned to do anything but stare after her, gaping.


	18. Q&A

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 18 (Q&A)

**October 1, 1943**

Every time Tom came near the bathroom now crassly termed "Moaning Myrtle's bathroom" on the second floor, a flood of adrenalin surged in his veins. His pet, his basilisk, lived down there, waiting for him to call it forth once more, yet he dared not. Myrtle's death had thrilled him with the hope of ridding the castle of mudbloods, but it wasn't to be so. If they closed the school—and they had threatened to do so—he'd have nowhere to go…this was home, or the closest thing to it he'd ever known.

It was time for curfew, and Tom really ought to be going. As a seventh year prefect, he'd been patrolling the halls, looking for excuses to penalize the other Houses, and frankly had been disappointed. No one else was out, it seemed. Notwithstanding the hour, he slipped into the girls' restroom, where he found himself skulking near the sink that linked him to the Chamber below. It would be so easy to hiss the words to make it open.

"What are _you_ doing in here? You're a _boy_!" exclaimed the ghost of Myrtle, hands on her hips, pigtails swishing.

Startled, Tom froze. Slowly he turned around, a genial smile splitting his handsome face. "There you are, Myrtle. I'd heard girls talking about you, and I hoped to see for myself."

"See what?" asked the specter, intrigued.

"Hogwarts' newest ghost, of course. How lucky you are to be able to chum with the likes of the Friar, Nick, the Grey Lady! You must have so many stories to tell."

Myrtle ducked her head shyly. If she'd been alive, she would have blushed. "Not so many," she mumbled, peeking up at the good-looking boy she used to see around school sometimes. "I haven't been dead that long—but the Grey Lady has been friendly to me. Did you know she was murdered?"

"Really?" asked Tom, truly interested. "By whom?"

"She doesn't want to say…but it had something to do with her diadem, that tiara thing that bestows wisdom. She was a bit incoherent and didn't say much about it," Myrtle confided in a whisper, then she cocked her head and floated a tad closer. "Don't you feel odd to be in a girls' bathroom?"

"A little," Tom confessed. "But I know no girls are coming in, so it's not that bad."

"I feel weird when I visit some places," Myrtle giggled, remembering her recent trip to the prefect's bathroom, where one of the sixth year boys was bathing. It had been most enlightening, and it was so easy to hide and peep. She smiled to herself; some of the boys probably wouldn't even mind if she watched. "But I get over it. Did you know the plumbing hooks up to the lake…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

An hour passed before Tom was able to excuse himself without appearing impolite. After all, one never knew when a ghost may come in handy, and it was best to keep those who could serve as spies close at hand—or at least on friendly terms, especially when they liked to blab. When he exited the lavatory and headed down the corridor, the time had indeed grown very late, and he quickened his step.

He rounded the corner at a good clip, only to smack into Albus Dumbledore. The latter grunted and stumbled; Tom jumped back as the man righted himself. Albus cleared his throat. "Tom, aren't you behind your time?"

"Yes, sir. I was patrolling…I must have lost track." As an afterthought he said, "Sorry."

"Quite all right. No harm done." His hand clapped down on Tom's shoulder; he gazed squarely into the young man's face and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling.

In that instant, the Legilimens in Tom instinctively flicked out tendrils into the old man's mind, careful not to arouse suspicion by outright invasive reading. If Dumbledore learned what he could do, he'd be ever more vigilant where Tom was concerned. He caught only flits, bits and pieces that passed before him along with swirling emotions. What he sensed both stunned and perplexed him.

A longing, a desire…for Tom? That wasn't possible, this was his _teacher_! And yet, did he doubt his own evaluation? No, not for a second—he'd seen what he had seen. Why did he not move away, or say something? He felt momentarily numb, glued to the spot. Was _this_ the real reason Dumbledore had been watching him so attentively of late? He'd assumed up to now that it had to do with the Chamber of Secrets.

Albus, his hand lingering on the boy's shoulder, said, "You should be off to bed."

It was all Riddle could do not to blurt, 'whose bed?' Certainly he was drawn to the raw magical strength of the older wizard—who wouldn't be? Was it also feasible Dumbledore felt a similar affinity for Tom's magical talent? They were of an ilk: both extremely formidable, both highly intelligent…an attractive, powerful mind searching out another. Was that such an unlikely scenario?

When Dumbledore's hand dropped to his side after sliding casually down Tom's back and narrowly brushing over one buttock, all doubt in Tom's mind was erased. To the boy's dismay, he felt neither uncomfortable nor apprehensive to consider what he perceived before him. The tiniest tug in his mind tempted him to take that step, to find out what all the hubbub was about concerning being _close_ to someone.

Fear of the unknown, fear of losing even a particle of control, brought Tom back to focus. He took a step backward. "Goodnight, sir." He spun on his heel and fled down the hallway.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**August 8, 2000**

_Oct. 1, 1943_

_ I am confused. That's something you don't hear every day from the greatest wizard to grace the Earth! My Legilimency is unparalleled, of this I am certain, yet the snippets I gathered from Dumbledore prove ambiguous. I must analyse what I experienced tonight._

_ He touched me—my shoulder, presumably as an act of affection. And also lower, although one might argue it was purely accidental. I have not personally ever had affection shown to me by an adult, but I have seen men lay hands on their children's shoulders. It is somehow related to __love__. However, Dumbledore doesn't love me, if such a thing even really exists as more than a ritualised form of manipulation. Therefore, this option proves invalid._

_ This, along with the longing I sensed, leads to the obvious conclusion that he wishes to establish some form of union with me…but is it physical or mental? If it is physical, does he propose to exploit an attractive lad, then bid him farewell when he is through? I've heard of such people; they tend to be serial users. This, of course, implies he has approached other boys, which makes it nothing short of preying on me, only to later betray me._

_ Alternately, does he wish to share a special meeting of extraordinary minds…perhaps culminating in more at a later date? I cannot deny I would enjoy a true connection with a like-minded individual, yet this can never really come to fruition. I cannot trust anyone; I mustn't trust __him__. To allow silly sentiment in spoils everything, tears down grand schemes, reduces potential greatness to mediocrity._

He'd only just stopped reading when the thought ran through Tom's brain…no, it cavorted with a nearly auditory sneer only Snape was capable of pulling off. _Riddle, you are so full of yourself it makes me want to hurl._

Tom frowned, drawing Snape's brows down until they pinched between his eyes. _As if you have a clue,_ he spat mentally at Severus.

_You interpret Dumbledore's action that way because you're a lame-arse bastard who couldn't permit himself to act like a human being. A simple act of kindness would send you into a veritable panic._

In answer, Tom whacked himself in the forehead—or so it looked to Jorab, watching from his chair outside the cage. "Get out of my head!"

"It's _my_ head, you bloody prat!" Snape growled back.

"You're just jealous because he was attracted to me and not to you," said Tom, smiling spitefully. Ah, blessed quiet. That shut him up!

Up to now, Tom/Snape had been slumped on the throne, knees drawn up to support the heavy volume of _Leonardo Da Vinci_, behind which hid the diary. He looked up at Rabby and closed the book, diary still inside, with a snap. "Why did you let him do it?"

Surprised to be addressed not only directly, but in a civil manner, Rab said, "What? Let who do what?"

"Don't play games, Rabastan, I've seen your memories. I've known since the first time your brother brought you to me. Your uncle—why did you let him?" He stared unwaveringly at the other man, waiting.

Flushing from shame that morphed to fury, Jorab stood up, wand in hand. If only he could hex through that elf-made barrier! "That's none of your business!"

Unruffled, Tom merely got up and went to the table, where he laid down the volume beside a stack of books. "I'm only curious. What did you gain from it?"

"Shut your gob!" Jorab jerked his head to the doorway, afraid Dolph had returned from taking a break outside. He'd put all this behind him, and he'd be damned if Voldemort's slightly-less-evil twin was going to bring it all back. If Dolph heard the conversation, he might feel obligated to _talk_ about it, which was one of the last things in the world Rab ever wanted to do.

Tom strolled up to the bars. "Your uncle was the aggressor, yet you feel guilty."

"I mean it, belt up or else!"

"I'd ask 'or else what', but given the present circumstances, I'm not sure I want to know," Severus drawled, giving a wry grin. "I do apologize for Tommy's complete lack of couth."

"That you, Snape?" asked Rab tentatively.

"Yes, and believe me, it's not easy getting a word in edgewise with Chatty McManiac ambling through my skull."

Jorab came forward, visibly excited. "Damn, it's good to see you back!" Almost immediately his excitement dimmed. "How long is it gonna last?"

Severus sighed, a long, exhausted exhalation of breath. "I wish I knew. I've got a perpetual, massive headache from fighting him. But it is becoming less arduous; I take that as a favourable sign." He massaged his temples as he spoke.

"Favourable, my arse!" Tom broke in. His eyes narrowed at Jorab, then he turned and flounced back to the table to find his diary. He had reading to do, loads and loads of it in order to rid him of this _Snape_ once and for all.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Lucius drew a steadying breath as he raised his cane to rap on the door. He didn't visit a lot of people nowadays, certainly didn't make a habit of barging in on people he didn't even know. It was only natural to wonder what kind of reception he'd get. He'd become accustomed to a lower profile since the war ended and his vilification began. In these past two years, he'd battled very hard to claw his way up the ladder of respectability once more, but there still existed a good deal of resentment and mistrust aimed his way. Some folks had long, unforgiving memories.

The door opened to a pleasant-faced woman in her thirties. She looked him up and down in one swift glance; her jaw tightened. "May I help you?"

"Mrs. Hawbecker? I am Lucius Malfoy."

"Yes, I know," she answered. A glint of fear shone in her eyes.

No stranger to fear in the eyes of those opposing him or another Death Eater, Lucius maintained his genial, polite visage without so much as a muscle twitch to betray his discomfort. "My father, Abraxas Malfoy, saved the life of your daughter several years ago. She has written me a letter, and I wondered if I might meet her, speak with her." He delved into the breast pocket of his robes and withdrew a parchment, which he handed to her.

Mrs. Hawbecker accepted the paper, unfolded it, and read it. Then she passed it back to him. "She told me you owled her in return."

"Yes, I did. I'd like to meet her, if I may," he repeated. "You are welcome to visit with us, if the thought of leaving her alone with me frightens you."

The last, in an obviously offended tone, made the woman blanch and recoil slightly. Despite the fact that Malfoy had been cleared of any heinous charges, he'd been a Death Eater; there was no telling what he was capable of. "I'm sorry, but I was about to take my daughters to Diagon Alley. My elder one is beginning Hogwarts this term."

"Mr. Malfoy!" An eight-year-old girl with a mop of golden curls slithered around her mother's form and burst out of the doorway, stopped only by the strong fingers of her mother, clutching her blouse. "I was hoping you'd come!"

Lucius gazed down at the girl, his face softening, a small smile playing on his lips. But for the size, this child fit perfectly the memory he held of her on the night of his father's death. Extending a hand to her, he said, "It is my pleasure to meet you, Sunny. You've gotten so big."

"Sunny," interrupted Mrs. Hawbecker, pulling her inside, "we're leaving in a few minutes. Tell Mr. Malfoy goodbye."

"Mummy!" exclaimed the girl. She struggled futilely; giving up, she pleaded, "Can't we talk just for a little bit?"

The woman's intent stare bounced back and forth between her daughter and Lucius. Her lips pinched, she said, "Five minutes, then we're going. Mr. Malfoy, won't you come inside?"

"Thank you, ma'am."

Lucius stepped over the threshold only an instant before the witch drew her wand and waved it in a circle over her head with a silent incantation. The very walls of the house seemed to ripple, and a strange red glow emanated from them. Lucius didn't need to ask what she'd done, he knew what it was and why: she'd erected a ward to prevent anyone of her blood leaving the house either willingly or by force. The implication stung, though he could not in all honesty fault her for it. He'd have done the same in her place.

"I'll be in the next room," she said. She nodded and stalked out.

Lucius knelt on one knee in front of the child as he produced another parchment from his pocket. At the same time he glanced furtively in the direction Mrs. Hawbecker had gone, and lowered his voice a notch. "Sunny, you told me in this second letter that you can tell when a person is lying. I admit my father had an uncanny ability to tell when _I_ was…less than truthful. Can you do this for anyone?"

The little girl shook her head ruefully. "Just for family—and only when I read something they wrote not long ago. For talking, I guess I'm like everybody else." A smile brightened her visage. "I can do something else! Watch." She ran to the vase of flowers set on a small table in the entry. Touching the tip of her finger to one petal, she looked back at him and laughed. The previously white petal was now a vibrant blue. In turn she touched each petal, to transfigure them into various shades of the rainbow. Then, as a grand finale, she waved her hand over the vase and every flower turned as golden as her hair.

"That's fascinating," murmured the wizard. Wandless transfiguration at any age was unusual; at eight, it was virtually unheard of. Abraxas had been strong in transfiguration, but even he could not do this.

"Mummy says other kids can't do it, and I ought not show off," stated Sunny.

"Your mother is right; other children can't do that," agreed Lucius. As for showing off, his philosophy was that if you had a talent, flaunt it—unless it compromises yourself, your family, or your goals. Time was rapidly escaping, he couldn't dwell on that now. "You said you can only tell if a person is lying if they're in your family. I'm not your family, but you knew about the dragon pox, that my father didn't…that it wasn't true."

"Oh, yeah." Sunny cocked her head and a tiny frown creased between her eyes. "But your daddy gave me part of himself with the spell. Doesn't that make me kind of like your sister?" A hopeful smile beamed up at him.

"I suppose so," he said thoughtfully. "Do you have a quill?"

"_Accio_ quill," her high voice ordered. A moment later one flew in and she snatched it out of the air, to hand it to him. "Self-inking," she stated solemnly. "Ink wells are messy."

This child was incredible! Not only could she transfigure, she could perform summoning charms and who knew what else! Perhaps when Father had performed the _conviare_, he truly had placed a part of his magic—his magical core—into the child, adding to her own. Again, no time to dwell. Lucius laid the parchment face down on the floor and hurriedly wrote a few lines. Gesturing to the writing, he challenged, "Tell me which are true and which are false."

"You think I made a lucky guess before?" she asked, though she squatted down to read the script, flowing and perfect despite the awkward position.

_My son is studying in Russia._

_Narcissa is planning a party soon._

_Theo works for the Ministry of Magic._

_Jacinta is an excellent painter._

_I like Regulus._

_I like Sirius._

_Aline's baby is a girl._

Sunny pursed her lips; her index finger tapped at each sentence as she intoned, "False, true, false, true, true, wow—big, fat NO," she giggled at the Sirius comment. "The last one is wonky…false, but it feels funny. You know?"

"I do," Lucius said, nodding. "Aline is having _two_ babies, and we don't know what they are yet. That was excellent—all but number two. Narcissa isn't—" He halted as a thought struck him. Hadn't she mentioned throwing a baby shower for Aline? With the way Narcissa always went all out with food and guests, it would be a merry affair. To a child, that would constitute a party, would it not? "Never mind. You got them all correct."

Mrs. Hawbecker appeared in the foyer, prompting Lucius to snatch up his paper and rise to his feet. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Malfoy. Come on, Sunny."

"Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate your kindness." To Sunny he smiled and said, "And thank you, little one. I hope we get the chance to meet again." He nodded to the woman, turned, and left, but not before he heard the girl's gleeful declaration:

"Mummy, I can read Mr. Malfoy, same as you and Daddy and Therese!"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Theo paused outside Peak's Portraits to peer inside. He liked to watch Jacinta at work, but if he stood over her, she felt shy and crowded. There she was, intently focused, paintbrush in hand, bending forward to dab at the portrait she was creating. She smiled and relaxed back into her chair. He loved to see her smile, something she didn't do nearly often enough anymore since Professor Snape had gone insane…er, had this episode with Voldemort in his head.

The bell over the door tinkled brassily as he entered. Jacinta looked up, then set down her brush and wiped her hands on a rag, and got up to greet him with a fierce hug and kiss. "Hello, my dear. Look, I finished the portrait."

Theo whispered something naughty in her ear. She chuckled and made a swipe at him before turning the picture around. It was the portrait of Regulus she'd begun at Spinner's End. "I was waiting for you. I'm going to try to animate it, but we don't know if it will work. Reg _was_ dead, but he's not now."

"Guess we'll find out," Theo said.

She aimed her wand at the life-sized (from the waist up) figure and said, "_Animato_ _imago_." A rose-coloured stream of light came from her wand; it approached the portrait, circled the frame once or twice, and wriggled up to the image of Regulus. It rather resembled a dog sniffing in a back garden. Then, all at once it plunged into Regulus' heart and was gone. The figure in the portrait grinned devilishly and glanced over at his maker.

"Hey, Jacinta. Hi, Theo. Am I dead?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Hey! Don't touch that! You wanna blow off your bloody fingers?" bellowed a dark-haired young man in a magenta robe as he scurried down the aisle in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes joke shop.

George Weasley, observing his new employee, raised his eyebrows while suppressing a laugh.

Regulus, who'd caught George watching him, patted the offending child on the head and hustled him away with, "I mean, be a good little blighter and shove off." His own raised eyebrows succinctly asked George, "Better?"

"You're doing fine, Reg," George assured him. "Some of these products can be dangerous for the tykes, so you've got to put the fear of God into them."

"I'm glad school hasn't started yet," answered Reg, warily eyeing a couple of teenage boys entering the shop. "I hear it's a madhouse then."

"Ah, yes—the back-to-school crowd," said George, smiling fondly. "We do a brisk business then. Good thing you'll be used to it by then."

Walking together, they passed by the Patented Daydream Charms rack, where a trio of girls were examining the boxes and excitedly exchanging suggestions. Reg cast a curious look back; one day he'd like to have a go at a daydream, see what all the fuss was about. If these kids ever got a look at a telly, _then_ they'd have something to crow over!

"Drop those Puffs!" George ordered upon spying the two teenagers tossing a pink one and a purple one back and forth while the animals squeaked piteously.

The boys glanced over to see Regulus' wand pointed directly at them. George gently pushed Black's arm down, saying, "Now, Reg, there are acceptable means of discipline. I prefer _this_ myself."

He waved his wand in a silent spell. A neon green wooden paddle emblazoned with the words **Shape** **Up** zipped through the air right past them, toward the teenagers. The boys dropped the Pygmy Puffs and fled, shrieking, as the paddle chased them down, smacking their bums on the way to the door.

"That's really clever," said Jacinta, stealing up behind them.

"Yes, it is," George agreed, turning to smile at her. "I don't believe I've seen you here before."

"This is my first time," admitted Jacinta, gesturing about. "It's astonishing, all these things you've come up with."

"Hi, Jacinta," Reg broke in.

"Hi, Reg. I came to tell you I finished your portrait, and the animation was successful. You can pick it up anytime."

"Yes!" he replied, pumping a fist in the air. "Now I can find out what it's like to talk to myself—literally. I hope I don't drive me crazy."

"You work at Peak's Portraits?" asked George in surprise. "That's right down the street. How did I not see you before?" He took her hand in his to kiss it. "I'm George Weasley, proprietor."

"I'm Jacinta Snape Mulciber," she responded, waiting for the delayed reaction she'd come to expect. Sure enough, like a revelation from heaven enlightening his mind, he promptly stepped one respectful pace back. It was an improvement over those who outright ran away.

"Professor Snape's daughter," he said, suddenly appearing a bit green around the gills. "Harry mentioned you. Please enjoy your shopping, and if I can be of any assistance, don't hesitate to ask Reg—I mean, me."

When he'd gone, taking such pains to show he wasn't intimidated by Snape that it screamed intimidation, Reg shrugged at her. "I kind of get the same reaction from people when they find out I was dead for twenty years. Once they get to know you, they'll see you're not scary like your old man. Of course, they'll still be scared of your old man…"

"Stop rambling, Regulus," she advised. "Is my father that fearsome? I don't get it."

"And you never will," said Theo, sidling up from the Muggle artifact section to sling his arm round her waist. "He's your papa, not your teacher. He looks at you with love, not like he wishes he could snap every bone in your body, then punt you off the edge of a building."

Jacinta twisted her mouth. "Let's not exaggerate."

Here Regulus leaned in, snickering. "Sorry to say, I'm with Theo on this one. Sev's my mate, but I wouldn't want to cross him if he's in a pissy mood. Oh crap, looks like someone got into the Nosebleed Nougats!"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It had been two weeks since Oksana had kissed him, and Draco didn't know what to think. For all appearances—public ones, that is—she acted as if nothing had happened. Even Oleksandr had fallen back on ignoring him, which was preferable to the I'd-like-to-cut-your-heart-out glowers he'd been giving. Draco had even begun to think he was overreacting, that maybe it was a cultural thing, a 'welcome' kiss or something…except for the way she placed herself overly near to him when they were alone. She made no move, though it made him uncomfortable.

He woke up with a start, grabbing for his wand under his pillow, and sat up pointing it at the dim figure at the side of his bed. "Who is it? What are you doing here?" His heart pounded frantically with the thought that if it were Oleksandr, he'd be lucky to still be alive.

Oksana moved closer to sit on the bed next to him. "Is only me. You know why I am here." One hand reached out in the dark and caressed the front of his pajama shirt. It was silk, smooth and luscious to the touch. "Very nice." She stroked at his chest beneath the shirt.

"No, I don't know why you're here," Draco insisted. He'd lowered his wand, but sort of wished he hadn't.

"You are lonely, no? You are handsome."

She tugged him toward her and kissed him hard on the mouth, her lips demanding yet soft like crushed velvet. Flabbergasted yet flattered, unable to process a woman so unlike those he knew back home, he found himself caught up in the moment, kissing her in return. She was skilled, that was certainly not in question.

Blinking back his shock at his own behaviour, Draco scooted away, confused. "Wait—stop!"

She paused in snogging long enough to say, "Don't worry about Sashko. He is asleep. And I put up silence charm."

She tried to resume, but Draco held her firmly at bay. Indignantly he said, "He's your boyfriend, isn't he? How can you do this?"

She rolled her eyes in the dark. "Sashko is too…how you say…jealous. Do you haf a girl?"

"Ye—" he began, then stopped abruptly. He was painfully reminded that he no longer had a girl because she'd dumped him. Out of spite he was tempted to take Oksana up on her offer, only that wouldn't hurt Astoria, it would hurt _him_ when Oleksandr got wind of it. "No. But that's not the point. Just because you're fickle doesn't make it right."

Oksana studied him in the very dim light. She didn't know what _fickle_ meant, but from the context she assumed it might mean _horny_. He'd hesitated over her question; maybe he did have a witch back home, and felt disloyal, or wasn't ready to give in yet. She could wait—but not too long. "Okay, I go." She sent him an air smooch as she left.

"What the hell just happened?" Draco muttered to himself.

In the copse of trees between the camp and the dragon pens (vastly enlarged after the new bloke talked to Charlie about it), Ihor took a final drag of his cigarette while noting the young woman exit Malfoy's tent. This was not good, not good at all. He ground the butt under his heel and strolled on to his own tent.


	19. Dungeons and Dragons

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 19 (Dungeons and Dragons)

**June 2, 1942**

Hagrid was nervous. There are few things more poignant yet comical than a nervous half-giant pacing (stomping) up and down a patch of hallway, wringing his monster-sized hands. Attacks had been carried out in the school; a girl had now been killed. Hagrid wasn't exactly the brightest flower in the pot, but he was clever enough to recognize danger over the horizon. The authorities would be looking to find the culprit, and experience had taught him that humans frequently blamed the easiest target, the one who was different. And if that 'different one' happened to enjoy exotic pets, he was all the more suspect.

He'd waited until his roommates were asleep to sneak from the room, as he always did on his nightly visits. Stealthily—amazingly so for one of his stature—he crept down the narrow staircase into the clammy dungeons, unlit by any torch, right past the Potions classroom, further and further into the labyrinth.

He rounded a corner and carefully opened the door to an unused janitor's closet. In spite of his caution, it creaked upon opening. Unbidden tears worked their way beneath his eyelids, and with his foot he nudged the meter-square wooden crate he'd set down.

"Sorry, Aragog," he whispered. "I weren't meanin' ter give yeh up so soon, yeh bein' jest a tyke. But things're gettin' hairy round 'ere—no offense."

"None taken," the spider replied just as quietly, scratching at the crate with a front leg. He didn't like the idea of being caged up. "In the Forest I'll be free. It's alright, you can come visit me."

Nonetheless, he resisted when Hagrid prodded him toward the box, coaxing in a hoarse whisper, "C'mon…gotta get yeh outta here…. C'mon now…in the box…"

In a move that made Hagrid's massive heart leap into his mouth, Tom Riddle jumped around the corner. "Evening, Rubeus."

Instinctively Hagrid slammed the door shut and stood up, towering over the prefect. "What yer doin' down here, Tom?"

The jig was up; Riddle had caught him. Accusations of Aragog being the monster who'd killed Myrtle, followed by vehement denial of such rang out in the corridor. Tom drew his wand and light flooded the area as the door banged open and Aragog stepped out of the closet. Riddle tried to hex the creature, who easily trod over him and scuttled away. One last attempt to murder the fleeing spider caused Hagrid to snatch at Tom's wand and pounce on him, throwing him to the ground.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"And that's what happened, Headmaster," Tom said, wrapping up his story of Hagrid's vicious beast kept in the dungeons, a creature that had attacked him and escaped. "I'm lucky it didn't kill me as well."

The wizened, frail-looking man behind the desk sighed. Whether it was from relief or sorrow Tom couldn't tell. "I'm glad you're alright, Tom. Go on to your room, I'll take it from here and get to the bottom of it."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**August 9, 2000**

_June 4, 1942_

_ Not only will I probably be permitted to stay the summer here at Hogwarts, I have saved the school from closing altogether. I informed Professor Dippet of Hagrid's monster, the one that ran roughshod over me and got away, and the aurors questioned the giant and took him away. As far as everyone is concerned, the danger is past._

_ I did have to steal back into the girl's toilet, into my Chamber, to lull my basilisk into hibernation. It's not prudent to leave it at large, when it may strike again. I hate to close the Chamber for good, but I must…for now, anyway. In the future, perhaps, I can carry on Salazar Slytherin's noble work._

_ Fate is a perverse bedfellow. I was incredibly fortunate to have a ready-made scapegoat in that huge oaf, Hagrid, yet it was purely by chance I spied him in the dungeons several weeks back—carrying raw meat, no less. Naturally I wondered what a Gryffindor was doing in Slytherin territory; the meat gave me to assume he'd acquired another illegal pet, for he was continually in trouble for such nonsense. I was right. That horrid spider was a monstrosity, though I'd not have cared one whit what he did for stupid pets, until it became expedient for me._

_ What is it they say? All's well that ends well._

Severus stopped reading and cocked his head. Something was amiss. Why wasn't Riddle gloating over his framing of Hagrid? These were the situations he reveled in, so where was he? Hiding, waiting to strike later? They'd been reading so many diary entries in the past couple of days that Snape's bloodshot eyes stung and swam in his head…so why wasn't Riddle coming forth to proclaim his victory? Not that Severus minded, of course. If only he didn't still feel a terrible, aching need to read the damned books! He was addicted, he surmised, yet he could not stop. It frightened him. To read might bring Voldemort charging back…to not read made Severus yearn and ache so badly he'd rather be dead.

He lifted his eyes to see Jack watching him from the far wall. "Enjoying the view, Mulciber?" he drawled.

"Not particularly," answered Jack. His gaze never wavered.

Marshal, his feet propped up on the small table, looked over and smiled wickedly. "You are a right ugly git, Snape. Don't know what Aline sees in you. I mean, crazy bitches like Bella might be attracted to a sallow bloke with a megalomaniac in his brain, but Aline's way finer."

"Sallow? Megalomaniac?" repeated Severus, eyebrows twitching upward. "Has someone held you down and crammed a dictionary down your throat? Not that I'd be surprised, mind you. I dare say the line of people wanting to maim you is quite long."

"Oh, now that just hurts my feelings," replied Marshal, holding a hand to his heart.

"Let me out of here and I'll hurt more than that."

"Wow. Now I'm wounded _and_ scared," said Marshal in a deadpan voice, rolling his eyes. "Seriously, Tommy, can't you do better than that?"

"I'm not Tom Riddle, wanker!" snapped Snape, deliberately using an insult he knew would enrage the other wizard.

Marshal dropped his feet to the floor; Jack stepped in front of him, throwing up a hand to keep him from jumping out of the chair. "He's trying to provoke you. Ignore it."

"He can't ignore it. He's a killer, that's all he'll ever be." The voice had changed to the high pitched intonation they'd all come to dread.

Jack turned to his friend, pleading. "You were coming through loud and clear, Snape. Don't let him win. Can't you fight harder?"

Severus, looking for all the world like his head was about to explode, hands clasped on either temple, growled back, "I'm trying, you jackass! No pun intended. What is it with you all? You think I haven't the intelligence to resist unless you tell me to?"

"Sorry. Just trying to be supportive," Jack answered softly. "You want us to leave you alone?"

Severus gave a brief shake of his head. His hair, formerly like glossy silk, hung lank about his face and swung against his cheeks with the movement. "I want to see my daughter and wife. They help, unlike certain persons who shall remain unnamed." He looked pointedly at Marshal.

"Like who?" asked Marshal, grinning.

"What part of 'shall remain unnamed' is foreign to you?" said Severus.

Jack nodded to his friend. "I'll let them know, but Jacinta isn't coming without me. Those are the terms."

"I'll bring Aline," Marshal added, leering and wiggling his eyebrows.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Remind me to soundly thrash you when I get out of here."

Marshal laughed out loud. To even the casual observer, it was patently obvious that Marshal, broad and muscular, could snap the gangly Severus like a twig. Magic-wise was another matter. "Yeah, I'll do that."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Draco knew immediately that something was afoot. Well, to be more precise, he knew when, at breakfast, two or three men gave him strange glances and mysterious smiles. He'd shrugged it off, assuming it meant nothing more than an unfamiliar custom, or perhaps that they were planning something unpleasant for him. He truly, seriously hoped it was the former option.

What he didn't see was the conversation between Ihor and Oleksandr later that morning, after Oleksandr had noticed the odd looks going around, and after he'd pressed another trainer for information. He stomped up to Ihor, visibly fuming.

"Ty znav, scho Oksana vchora vnochi hodyla do nameta Draco?" (_Did you know Oksana went to Draco's tent last night?)_ he exclaimed.

Ihor shuffled a foot in the dirt. "Er…ni?" _(Um…no?)_

With an expression of utter betrayal, Oleksandr returned, "Tak ty vse-taky znav! Chomu zh ty todi ne skazav pro tse meni? My zh z toboiu druzi?" _(You did know! Why didn't you tell me? We're supposed to be friends.)_

"Tomu scho tse ne vazhlyvo," _(Because it wasn't important)_ Ihor said, trying to be rational with a clearly irrational wizard. "Vona bula tam lyshe kil'ka khvylyn. Zamalo chasu schob…" _(She was only there a couple of minutes. That's not time to…)_ He cocked his head with a knowing look that enraged his friend all the more.

"Zamovkny!" _(Shut up!)_ shouted Oleksandr. He'd begun to pace furiously, breathing hard through flared nostrils. "Ya provchu tsioho Malfoya. Vin znatyme, yak zalytsiatysia do moieyi divchyny." _(I'm going to get that Malfoy. He'll know not to make a move on my girl.)_

"Sashko, yakscho khtos' do kohos' i zalytsiayetsia, to tse Oksana," _(Sashko, if anyone is making the moves, it's Oksana)_ argued Ihor.

"Tobi vona prosto ne podobaietsia. Ty tsioho nikoly ne pryhovuvav," _(You just don't like her. You've always made that plain)_ snorted Oleksandr.

Ihor sighed like a martyr. "Meni ne podobaietsia yak vona stavytsia do cholovikiv; meni ne podobaietsia yak vona stavytsia do tebe. I ty spravzhniy yolop, bo uhse tse terpysh." _(I don't like the way she treats men; I don't like the way she treats you. And you're an idiot to put up with it.)_

For a long moment Oleksandr said nothing, he merely glared. At last he huffed, "V mene bahato roboty." _(I have stuff to do.)_ He started to walk away.

"Ne roby durnyts', Sashko!" _(Don't do anything stupid, Sashko!)_ Ihor debated briefly trying to detain him. Deciding it was a fruitless endeavor, and that the other man only needed to cool off, he went on about his own chores. When lunch came and went without incident, he began to relax.

By mid-afternoon, Draco had finished his first session with the golden dragon, whom he'd dubbed Nugget—not terribly original, but appropriate in its way. He petted her snout and wished her a good day, then turned around from the pen as she waddled off to frolic in the vastly enlarged area, thanks to Draco's counsel. He stopped in place. There, only a few paces away, stood Oleksandr, his brown hair blowing in the breeze.

The two faced each other in a second of stony silence that seemed to go on forever. Sashko, older by a good five years, appeared to be sizing up the competition. His nose, slightly off kilter from a fight years ago, served as a conspicuous warning to Draco, as if he needed one.

With piercing blue eyes that penetrated the soul, the Ukrainian glared daggers at the outsider as he slowly moved forward. "You think you special, Malfoy? You talk to dragons?" He spat on the ground. "That what I think of you."

Draco wished he could claim innocence, yet he knew with relative certainty the reason for Oleksandr's spite…he only wondered who had told the wizard. HE surely hadn't! He pulled back a bit, his fingers twitching to go for his wand. "I have no quarrel with you, Oleksandr."

"I haf quarrel with you."

He advanced only one more step, and his fist flew so fast Draco had not time to raise a hand in defense before a tremendous clout across the jaw sent him spinning to the ground. Sashko sprang forward to land on top of him, where he set to pounding in earnest with both fists. Draco blocked and thrashed, trying to free himself, unable to access his wand from his breast pocket, as Sashko was presently sitting on it.

As he pummeled Draco, his blows punctuating his words, Oleksandr shouted, "You—stay away—from—Oksana! She—ees—mine!" Three solid punches to the side of the head.

"Get off me!" Draco managed a few feeble punches of his own, and a wild kick somehow landed in the other man's kidney, making the Ukrainian gasp. "I don't want Oksana!"

And then Sashko was being lifted off him by Charlie, wielding his wand to levitate the wizard and drop him in the dirt a few meters away. "Stay there or I'll knock you down the hard way," he advised. He motioned for Draco to get up. "Are you alright?"

Draco rolled to his side and got to his feet, out of habit brushing at the dust and straw on his robes. One side of his face was puffy and sported a black eye. His nose was bleeding, and he seemed unsteady. "He attacked me! I didn't do anything to him!"

"He ees try take my girl!" Oleksandr bellowed, though he sensibly remained where Charlie had dropped him. The wand still aimed his way held a certain power of persuasion.

"I did not!" Draco yelled back. He hesitated, unsure whether to implicate Oksana in all of this. If he admitted to her…nightly activities, it likely would only incite the thug further. "You should sack him! He's insane, he's dangerous."

Charlie looked askance at Draco, who had probably never been in a fight in his life. Of course he had no idea how to handle it. Leave it to a Malfoy to go demanding his way and expecting everyone to fall in line! "Sashko, this is your last chance. I told you the last time you got into a brawl that it wouldn't be tolerated."

"I quit," said Oleksandr defiantly. "I go to other camp." With that he stalked off, throwing a dragon harness off the fence in front of the pen.

"Other camp?" squeaked Draco, afraid it meant somewhere very close by.

"East of here, two hundred kilometers or so. It's right on the border with Romania," said Charlie. This was not good news for him; Sashko was a hard worker and good with the dragons, even if somewhat volatile with humans. He only hoped Oksana had the sense to go with Sashko, if for no other reason than to avoid more turmoil and drama. Let someone else deal with it for a change!

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**August 15, 2000**

From her position on the floor at her mother's feet, eight-month-old Khala had a spectacular view of the proceedings. She had no idea what those proceedings were, mind you, but she knew they had to be good. There were a whole bunch of ladies—some she knew, some she didn't—sitting around talking and laughing. There was Goria, and Tori, and Auntie 'Droma, and 'Cinta, and one who kind of looked like Auntie 'Line; the rest she didn't know at all.

Auntie 'Line had ripped beautiful coloured paper off a slew of boxes and 'oohed' over each thing to come out. There seemed to be a lot of little clothes, not much to get excited over. Now the toys she'd seen, those looked like fun, but the big people kept them hidden high out of reach.

At the moment, Khala contented herself with a bit of the paper, crinkling it between her tiny fists and trying to stuff it into her mouth, only Mama kept thwarting her. Ladon weaved his way from 'Cinta across the room and squatted down. He offered her an even better toy: a bow from the top of one of the presents. Khala snatched it from her brother and giggled, then immediately rammed it into her mouth to suck on the ribbon.

"No, honey, that's not good for you." Narcissa took the bow away and Khala squalled her disapproval. She was never allowed to taste interesting toys!

Ladon put a stubby finger to his lips and dropped to all fours, grinning at his sister. He whispered in her ear and began to crawl away under the chair. Khala abruptly quieted, assumed the crawling position, and followed him. They'd got as far as the doorway to the parlor when they were intercepted by two men hoping the bulk of the women's party was over.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Lucius gently as he lifted his daughter to his chest. She cooed and squealed at Fa'er, then tugged his long, unbound hair before slipping a lock into her mouth. Let Mama try to stop her now!

His companion hoisted a struggling Ladon up. "Vhat a big boy you are," said Viktor, smiling at the lad, who'd stopped squirming to study this new face, to latch a hand on that wonderfully prominent nose.

"There you are, Lucius!" exclaimed Narcissa, motioning him over. "Come in, Viktor. How was your game?"

"Excellent," answered the Bulgarian a bit nasally, for he still had a small child attached to his nose.

Lucius raised a blond brow. "One on one Quidditch is a game for the young, I'm afraid."

"You caught the snitch von time," Viktor protested, grinning a little too much.

"I'm fairly certain you let me," Lucius replied dryly. "I was only a seeker at Hogwarts, not a world-famous sensation."

His gaze travelled over the guests, searching, to land on the untamed mane of Hermione. Not for the first time, old prejudices reared their ugly head at her Muggleborn status; it niggled at the edge of his brain, and he mentally swatted it away. The girl had helped save Narcissa after the goblins pitched her through the Veil; she would be welcome in his manor for the rest of her life.

He walked over to lay a loving hand on his wife's shoulder, where he unconsciously began squeezing softly. Narcissa took his hand in hers, returning the squeeze and almost making him forget what he wanted to say to the young witch. He cleared his throat. "Miss Granger, I believe congratulations are in order."

Startled, Hermione's eyes grew wide and she blushed as the rest of the women peered curiously at her. She threw Viktor a 'why did you tell him' look. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

"Congratulations on what?" prompted Aline, poking her friend playfully in the ribs. "Did you get a promotion in the Ministry?"

"No, I'm still liaison for Bulgaria," Hermione mumbled, flushing more furiously until she was bright scarlet. She chewed her lip, debating, then blurted joyfully, "Viktor and I are engaged! I didn't want to say anything, to steal your thunder on your baby shower."

"I don't mind, Hermione. I'm so happy for you—and you, too, Viktor!" Aline flung her arms round the girl as the others in the crowd issued vocal best wishes on the couple.

"My congratulations to you both," said Narcissa, smiling, inconspicuously checking out Hermione's finger. "You haven't got a ring yet?"

In answer, Hermione pulled a chain from beneath her robes, around her neck; the ring dangled at the end, a detailed gold band topped with a most unusual multi-coloured flat disk no larger than a pinkie fingernail.

Aline bent in close, taking the ring in her hand to examine it. Turning to the group, she breathed in an excited hush, "It's a dragon scale—a _very rare_ dragon scale! It's gorgeous, Hermione."

"Thank you, Aline… We really should get back to your party."

Taking Hermione's cue to divert attention back to the current guest of honour, Narcissa said, "We simply must get together to celebrate properly before you lovebirds return to Bulgaria. For now, how about we cut the cake? Aline, would you do the honours?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

School was set to start in a couple of weeks. Until then, the Potions lab would sit idle; what better time to give Hagrid lessons than now? With that in mind, Bayly had prevailed upon the giant to come to the dungeon to make a healing salve for a variety of interesting creatures he was so fond of. Hagrid had reluctantly agreed only for the sake of the animals.

"I ain't never been good at Potions," Hagrid cautioned for the fifth time in five minutes. "Ol' Slughorn hated seein' me comin', I'll tell yeh."

"That's what practice is for," answered Bayly with a reassuring nod. "We'll start with something easy. Once you feel confident, we can move on to harder potions." He made a sweeping gesture across the table, where a number of ingredients were laid out. "Here is everything we need. The instructions are written on the board. Read it over a few times, then we'll get started."

Everything went well up to the point where Bayly left the room to fetch an appropriate container for the finished product. He directed Hagrid to add the minced Woody Nightshade leaves in exactly two minutes. Easy enough, didn't require supervision.

Antsy without his guide, Hagrid alternately stared morosely at the door and at the clock above the door. It was time and Bayly wasn't back yet, so Hagrid gingerly picked up a pinch of the required leaves and dropped them into the simmering cauldron. The mixture turned red, that was a good sign—and then it began to gurgle upward along the sides of the cauldron, edging closer and closer to the rim. Panicking, Hagrid grabbed a stirring rod, thrust it in, and stirred briskly.

Ah, good, the bubbling receded. Now a cloud of noxious orange smoke was billowing up as the mixture spit and sputtered. Guiltily wide-eyed, not knowing what to do, Hagrid backed toward the door much faster than his bulk might suggest. In fact, he moved so quickly the unsuspecting Bayly bumped into his retreating figure and bounced across the corridor, smacking him against the wall and causing him to lose his grip on the jar. It fell and shattered on the floor at the same instant the cauldron exploded in the lab.

"All I done was add a pinch, like yeh said," wailed Hagrid as he watched Bayly eliminate the toxic gas with a wave of his wand. They stood gaping at the mess in the classroom. "It started comin' over the edge, an' I couldn't stop it. I tried stirrin' it down…" The poor giant looked set to cry.

"It's alright, Hagrid. We all make mistakes," Bayly said. His mind automatically began to process the reason for the calamity. Hagrid had stirred it because it was rising…which only happened if too much of the leaf was added. But he said he'd added a _pinch_. Bayly turned to the giant and lifted one massive hand to his own. Duh! It became crystal clear. "It's not your fault, Hagrid. When I said a 'pinch', I meant using _my_ hands. Your fingers are way bigger, so your pinch is bigger. Let me finish cleaning up, then I'll go get a set of measuring spoons in sizes like 'pinch, touch, and smidgen'."

"Bayly, why do yeh even bother? I'm hopeless," moaned Hagrid.

The young man whirled on him, hazel eyes blazing. "No, you're not. We all have obstacles that are hard to overcome, and sometimes we need help. That doesn't make us hopeless." His visage softened. "Sometimes all we need is somebody to believe in us. Now come on, help me with the room. You remember the cleansing spells…"

(A/N: Many thanks to Natalie for the Ukrainian translations! Also, shout out to Slytherin Dragoon, for her clever invention of 'Severmort', and to my muse, Alex! And of course to all who read and review!)


	20. Meetings

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 20 (Meetings)

**August 18, 1977**

Lord Voldemort strolled into the meeting room of the castle ruins from somewhere in the dark recesses, Bellatrix at his elbow. Together they walked right up to Lucius and Severus. Lucius instantly dropped to his knees to kiss the hem of the master's garment, and felt a surge of humiliation at doing so in front of a non-Death Eater, which irritated him on top of it. Quickly he got to his feet. Voldemort, sensing his shame, smiled inwardly.

"My lord, I've brought Severus Snape as we discussed."

Bellatrix had her face so close to the boy it looked like she was kissing him. She tilted her head and prowled around him ever so slowly, observing him from every angle, occasionally pursing her lips, whether to indicate disapproval, Lucius couldn't tell. Severus stared straight ahead, seemingly ignoring her presence. Voldemort waved them away from the hearth; Lucius took a few steps to the side, dragging Severus with him, which seemed to nettle Bella, who'd lost her new toy.

It was Voldemort's turn to study the boy. Much like Bella, he strolled around Severus in silence as he peered at him, searching for signs of weakness. Finding none, he grasped Severus' head in his hands, aligned their eyes, and forced himself into the youth's mind. Severus' automatic instinct to block the intrusion was overridden by Lucius' earlier warning. He allowed the assault without a whimper, though it shamed and pained him to permit access to such private thoughts and memories. He felt violated on levels he didn't know existed.

Amid the flurry of memories the dark lord rifled through, his interest was piqued by a select few. He eagerly devoured them, including one of Severus at the age of fifteen at Hogwarts.

_"Lily, why do you rush off every time I want to talk to you? I thought we were friends." Severus stared at the girl's back, willing her to turn around, and she did._

_ She flipped her hair over her shoulder while smiling apologetically. "Of course we're friends. I just have a lot of work to do. This is O.W.L.s year, you know."_

_ "So it wouldn't have anything to do with being afraid __Potter__ might see you talking to a Slytherin—or rather, a particular Slytherin?" Severus asked caustically. He hadn't meant to sound so snide, though he firmly believed he was right. She'd been pulling away from him more every year, and he saw the way that Gryffindork puke looked at her; she saw it too._

_ Lily's brows furrowed into a deep frown; her lips pursed into a tight pout. "I don't like him! Why does everyone keep bringing that up?"_

_ "It has to be something! When we first came to Hogwarts, we were best friends. I can't remember the last time you sought me out, or the last time we spent time together just…because," he answered, swallowing hard in a very dry throat._

_ "You're making a big deal out of nothing," she replied, casting another furtive glance over her shoulder. "I really have to go, Sev. I'll see you later." She gave a brief wave before scurrying down the hall._

_ Once again Severus found himself staring at her retreating back, something that had become all too common. He wanted with all his heart to believe she still held him as dear as he held her, but he was a dreamer, not a fool. How often had the boys in Slytherin House railed against Gryffindors, and vice versa? How often had they bandied about the 'mudblood' term? While Gryffindors were certainly by and large an arrogant bunch of arseholes, Lily always managed to take exception to the name calling on the Slytherin side and paint HIM with the same brush as she used for the rest of them. Despite his weakness for her, he saw her inability to distance herself from the prejudices of her own crowd._

_ The corridor was too quiet; where had everyone gone? Snape looked around in bewilderment. How long had he been standing here? Damn it, now he was late for class! He took off at a trot, rounded a corner, and fell sprawling on his face as his books toppled and bounced in different directions._

_ "Oh, my God, he falls for that every time!" chortled Sirius. His cohorts laughed along with him._

_ Face flaming with embarrassment as well as ire, Severus pulled himself painfully to his knees. His left elbow sent shocking waves of nauseating agony up his arm, and his lower lip dribbled droplets of blood on the floor. "You f—king wanker, you tripped me," he seethed. With four wands already out and pointed at him, he thought better of drawing his own._

_ Sirius projected an air of absolute innocence, one the teachers never seemed to see through. "How can I be f—king and still be wanking?" he smirked._

_ "I've no doubt you'd manage." Severus got to his feet and __accio__'d his books. "This isn't over, Black."_

_ Here James broke in. "Looks like it is, Snivellus. It's four of us, one of you."_

_That never stopped me before__. Snape studied each of the faces encircling him. Potter—smug, haughty, cruel. How he wished the bastard would die a scathingly horrific death. Black—the epitome of unrelenting, aberrant hostility packaged in quasi-human form. Again, singular death wish in a most painful and grotesque manner. Pettigrew—rat-like features, ho-hum abilities, attached himself to the aforementioned two in order to avoid being the prey. Snape wouldn't mind seeing him boiled in a cauldron of oil and fed to a pack of hippogriffs. Last and decidedly least, Lupin—the werewolf. He couldn't prove it, of course, but the ritual full moon disappearances had become extremely suspicious._

_ Severus aimed his remark to the latter. "Now the prefects join in the harassment. What's next, recruiting the teachers? Oh, wait—you've already done that, the lot of you, with your show of being sanctimonious. You needn't have bothered. You're Gryffindorks; you've got an automatic pass."_

_ He shoved into Remus, who'd dropped his head, and started toward his class, fully expecting several hexes from behind. When he whirled about, wand in hand, the four had gone. Warily he increased his speed, in the event they planned another ambush._

At last the dark wizard stepped a few paces back. "Why are you here?"

"To become your follower, sir," answered Severus. Did his voice quake a bit?

"How trite," murmured Voldemort. "I'd expected more from one of your intellect."

"Master, he—"

"Lucius, did I address you? I confess, I don't recall doing so."

"No, my lord." Lucius clamped his mouth shut and swallowed hard. If he wasn't satisfied with Severus, Lucius would pay the price.

Voldemort turned to Severus again. "I ask again, young Snape, why are you here?"

Severus hesitated. Lucius had given him the common answers to the questions the dark lord typically asked. If the responses were acceptable from others, why were they inadequate from _him_? He decided to simply tell the truth.

"I wish to become a Death Eater, sir," he said finally. As he continued, his voice rose in volume and fury. "I want the power to rule over the morons incapable of producing a truly civilized society wherein intelligence trumps politics. I desire nothing more than to see my enemies grovel at my feet as I hold their very lives in my hand! I want _justice_!"

The slight smile playing on Voldemort's thin lips told Lucius all he needed to know even before the man spoke. "Well said, Severus. Your memories tell me you have quite a few enemies you'd like to wreak vengeance on. With the power of Lord Voldemort behind you, perhaps you'll be able to satisfy your desires."

From nowhere the dark lord's wand was in his hand. "Always remember that my desires supersede yours. If I choose to grace you with a favour, you are extremely fortunate. Now tell me, what have you to offer _me_?"

"I'm a Potions master, sir. Whatever you need, I can make."

Voldemort's smile turned to a scoff. "Seventeen, are you? And a Potions master?"

Bellatrix joined in his laughter with her high cackle. "The little boy thinks he's a big wizard!"

Severus' eyes shot daggers at her. "I'm not lying!"

As quickly as he'd begun, Voldemort stopped laughing. His own blood-red eyes pierced Severus. "The boy is telling the truth, Bellatrix. I've seen it." His wand aimed at Severus and jerked down, forcing him to his knees. "Extend your left arm."

Severus sucked in an excited yet panicked breath and did as he was bid. The tip of the evil wizard's wand touched his skin and he screamed as he'd never done before from pain. Until now, he'd never experienced such agony, not even when he'd been gored by an intruder in his house. Shortly the throbbing subsided, and he gazed up at the master.

"Thank you, my lord," he whispered.

"Lucius, you've done well. First you brought me a most loyal follower, our dear Bellatrix." She smirked at the mention of her name. "Now you bring me a Potions master. I'm pleased."

Trying very hard to suppress the expression of gratitude and relief, Lucius merely bowed toward the man. "My greatest desire is to please you, master."

Voldemort acknowledged his response with a slight inclination of his head. Lucius was loyal, he would prove quite useful in the future, but as to whether he placed his master's desires above all was a point of contention. Nonetheless, he was working toward Voldemort's goal; the rest was irrelevant.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**August 18, 2000**

_Aug. 18, 1977_

_ I have been pleasantly surprised by Lucius once again. Today he brought me a lad of great promise—a Potions master, no less. He shall prove invaluable, I think. And the hatred…ah, my heart swelled to feel the animosity he carries inside. It will be easy to channel that hate into my service._

_ Somehow it does not shock me that Dumbledore allows ruffians to run the halls of Hogwarts. He kept an annoyingly close eye on me, lest I or my comrades make a disturbance, yet he allows his pets, the Gryffindors, run free to terrorise at will. Methinks it will return to bite him in the arse._

Severus couldn't decide whether to be flattered or sickened that Voldemort had been so happy to receive him into the fold. Knowing what he did now of the evil wizard and his minions, he tended toward sickened.

He looked up from the diary at the sound of his name. Aline, escorted by Lucius, walked up to the bars, wearing a guarded expression that made him feel inexplicably dirty. "Aline. I'm so glad you're here." He got up and hurried to the bars.

"How are you?" she asked in the stilted dance they'd come to call conversation of late.

Severus shot a glance at Lucius, then back to his wife. "Much better, now that you're here." How often had he gagged back snarky remarks when Lucius talked this way to Narcissa? He'd been so long without touching Aline, without holding her in his arms and thanking God in the silence of his heart for bringing her to him…he ached so desperately for her, yet all he could say was, "I've missed you."

"I miss you, too," she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes.

Instinctively Severus reached a hand through the bars of the cage and latched onto Aline's fingers; in a flash, Lucius had his wrist in a death grip.

"Don't you dare," Lucius growled softly.

"I'm not going to hurt her!" Snape exclaimed indignantly, trying to yank free without letting go of his wife.

"No, you're not," confirmed Malfoy, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Keep your hands to yourself until we know Tommy-boy has gone bye-bye."

"This is _me_, Lucius! Can't you tell?"

Lucius returned an emotionless stare. "Keep your hands to yourself. I've warned you before; if I have to break your arm, I will."

"Lucius, please," said Aline. She did, however, pull her hand away from her husband.

"Aline, he's fooled us all before. We must remain circumspect."

"What is it going to take to convince you, Malfoy?" asked Severus in a low hiss. "For two days I've been trying to tell you dunderheads that I'm in control now."

"And if we could believe you, you'd be free," retorted Lucius. In spite of everything, Snape had a point. The countercharm was working, that was not in dispute. Nonetheless, how would they know when it was safe for the world to release him from this prison? There was no measure for his jailers to take stock of his condition. Lucius honestly had no answer for him. "Did you sense anything, Aline?"

The witch nodded slowly, looking troubled. "I feel Severus, but there is a lot of wrath, too. It doesn't belong to him…not all of it. I really can't tell who's in control."

Severus closed his eyes and bit back a cruel comment that leapt to his mind. What disturbed him was that _he himself_ couldn't determine if it had come from himself or from Riddle, playing him in the background. As badly as he wanted out of this cell, the rational part of him grudgingly sided with Lucius; it wasn't safe for Aline, the babies, or anyone else until he knew for certain there would be no more sneak appearances of the lunatic. "Aline, what's been going on lately?"

At this his wife grimaced. She had some unsettling news—at least, she was sure Severus would think so. Best to start off light. "As you know, Bayly will be teaching all the Potions classes while I'm on maternity leave—except the seventh years, when you're well and can take over." The young man's training to become a Potions master was stalled for the moment, as Aline wasn't up to the work now, and Severus was…incapacitated. Nothing good could come of pointing that out. "Minerva is acting as Headmistress until you get over your 'infectious disease requiring quarantine'. Harry made a visit to her and discovered you were unwell. He, um—he suggested Sirius Black be appointed as professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Minerva agreed." She clenched her jaw and waited for the explosion. She wasn't disappointed.

"Bloody hell! No, she didn't!" he bellowed.

"It's only until you come back," reasoned the witch, taking a pace backward.

"Do you recall how many years I had to wait for that position?" Severus howled, pacing back and forth like a caged lion. "And that Brat-Who-Lived-to-Make-My-Life-a-Living-Hell has the gall to suggest HIM, my mortal enemy? Of all people on the face of the sodding planet, she picked HIM?"

"Honey, I'm sorry. It's not my decision."

"What about you, Lucius?" said Snape.

At the unexpected query thrown his way, Lucius looked up from inspecting his fingernails. "What about me? Do I fancy the idea of Black taking the post? No. Do I think I've got the slightest chance to acquire the position myself? Well, let's see." He began to tick off on his fingers. "Ex-Death Eater, thrown off Governing Board, stints in Azkaban…I think not." He gave a little smirk that developed into a chuckle. "Think of it this way: when you get out of here, you can sack Black. That's got to offer you some consolation, something to look forward to."

Sulking, Severus pondered it briefly. In spite of himself, the idea did make him feel better. With any luck, he'd get to stroll into the DADA classroom and fire Black in front of the students, then order him off the premises. He managed a tiny smile. This particular dark cloud had a lovely silver lining.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Jacinta had barely stepped outside the door of Peak's Portraits when a jovial, freckled face topped with red hair popped out at her. She started, jumping and going for her wand in an instant.

"Whoa!" shrieked George Weasley, throwing up his hands in front of his face as much to show he was unarmed as for protection. "Down, girl."

"Oh, it's you," she sighed in relief. She lowered the wand. "Don't scare me like that."

"Believe me, if I'd known you had Snape's propensity for dueling, I wouldn't have," said George, smiling. In an odd way, he found her reaction alluring. "I was actually coming to see you on my lunch time; it seems to be your break as well, so perhaps you'd care to join me for a bite?"

"Would this be construed as a date?"

George looked pensive for a moment. He was a bloke, she was a bird, he'd like to get to know her better. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Then I must decline," said Jacinta with a shrug. "I'm seeing Theo."

"The dark-haired fellow?" inquired George, not needing the confirmation of the nod. He'd seen the young man in the store the same day he met Jacinta. "Little bland for you, isn't he? You could do with one more spirited, such as myself." He winked.

Jacinta laughed, though in the back of her mind it bothered her. Not that George would say it, but that it was true. Theo used to be loads of fun; now they rarely did anything exciting anymore. "You said you wanted to see me. About what?"

"I got the idea from Regulus. I'd like you to paint my portrait—"

"If you hope to animate it, think again," interrupted the witch. "To my knowledge, you haven't been dead."

A sadness flitted across his features, and then was gone. "No, but my brother—my twin—died. I'd love to be able to talk to him again. Seeing as we were identical, I thought I could pose for the portrait, and you could animate it as Fred."

"I'm sorry about your brother," Jacinta said softly. "Of course I'd be happy to create Fred's portrait. Why don't you come by next week and we can get started on it."

"Sounds like a plan," said George. "And now that we've established a working relationship, maybe we can have lunch together and discuss it." Noting her hesitation, he added, "Purely platonic. I promise." As they moved away from the building, he uncrossed his fingers held behind his back and let his hand fall to his side.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Jorab was tired of hiding, tired of waiting to be caught and brought before his peers to be upbraided or worse. Damnation, he was sick of the queasy sensation roiling in the pit of his stomach, and the dread of being captured. He peeked through the sliver of light between the door and its frame in the public restroom of the Silver Sparrow restaurant. There she was, her back to him, chatting away with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

He shut the door and slumped against the wall. There was no sneaking out without one or both of the Malfoys spotting him. He should never have continued to humour Dolph and Narcissa by going on these dates that held not a speck of interest for him. Merlin's beard, this new woman was Jugson's widow! Why on Earth would he consider her as a potential mate? He didn't even like Jugson; why would he want to raise the two brats he'd left behind? So what if Ivanna seemed pleasant enough, if rather dull; he simply could not keep doing this.

Lucius' gaze had swept the area only seconds before Rabby closed the door. What if he'd seen him? Knowing Malfoy, he'd act all genteel and prim until he got his friend alone, then lambaste him royally for upsetting Narcissa. The man had a serious priority problem. Rabby gave another desperate glance about the room. There were no windows; unless the toilet magically flushed him out of here, he was stuck.

The door swung open, nearly colliding with Jorab as a witch with sandy blond hair stepped inside, then froze with a mortified expression. "Oh, excuse me! I didn't know anyone was in here." She reached for the handle.

"Forgive me," Jorab said, propelling himself off the wall, looking sheepish. "I was just, er…hiding." He grinned, embarrassed.

To his surprise, the woman laughed. "Me, too! My brother and his wife keep setting me up on these awful dates."

"Sounds sorely familiar," replied the wizard.

"I was looking for a way to escape. The busboy told me there's a secret passage in here," explained the witch. "Want to come along?"

Rabby looked in the direction of the restaurant, then back at the woman; where had he seen her before? "Yes. Please."

She motioned for him to move aside. Behind the closed door, measuring inward about a meter, she reached up and pushed one of the green tiles embedded in the wall. A grinding sound accompanied the opening of a panel which slid upward to reveal a dark staircase headed into an even darker pit. The woman lit the tip of her wand and entered, followed closely by Jorab. Behind him, the passage door closed with a grating click.

Despite the dim light offered by the wand, the sudden darkness enveloped the pair and Rabby immediately bumped into the witch, nearly sending her careening down the steps. Lightning reflexes on his part enabled him to grab her shoulder, and she steadied herself on the handrail.

"I'm so sorry!" he gushed. "Are you okay?"

"Aside from the heart failure, I think so," she responded dryly. "That would have been a nasty spill."

Jorab lit the tip of his own wand and took the lead to avoid a replay incident. They continued in silence down what seemed much further than two stories. At the bottom of the musty, slightly dank staircase, they came upon a blank wall—or so it appeared. They felt around for a handle or irregularity to indicate an opening, then took turns shooting unlocking spells at it.

"I guess the busboy forgot to tell you how to get out," observed Rabby, rolling his eyes.

"I didn't ask. I assumed there'd be a door." In the gloom he couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw her cheeks flush.

Well, wasn't this cozy? After all his trouble of trying to steal away undetected, he'd now have to tromp back up to the restaurant and face the music…unless he was also unable to access _that_ end of the passage. For all he knew, this was a one-way pass—and he had yet to figure out how to avoid starving to death in this mold-infested stairwell while attempting escape. It just got more fun by the minute.

"We could blow a hole in the wall," he suggested finally.

"And bring the aurors down on us?" she asked. Her countenance clearly said, 'Nice idea, moron.'

"I'm not seeing a lot of options," he snapped. "It's not like we can say 'Open Up' and get out." Instantly a panel at the front of the stairs slid up; it led to an alley outside the restaurant. Abashed, Rabby said, "Or I could be wrong."

The two hurried through, grateful to be in the fresh air once more. The panel shut behind them, leaving a smooth, blank wall. The woman turned to him and said, "Goodbye. It's been a pleasure."

"The pleasure is mine," Rabby responded, bowing stiffly. He felt like he should kiss her hand, but that only applied in proper introductions. "What's your name? I don't mean to sound presumptuous, but it's not every day I get trapped in a secret passage with someone."

"Livonia Young. And you?"

"Jorab Goodman." He bowed again, this time while pressing her hand to his lips. "You know, I never did get to eat. If you like, I know an obscure Italian place not far from here."

"That sounds charming."

They started to walk, cleared the alley, and turned right. "You wouldn't happen to be related to Bayly Young, would you?"

Livonia stopped in her tracks and shot him an icy look. This was the primary reason she despised dating! As soon as a man found out who she was, he wanted to know the 'inside scoop' on Antonin and the terrible things he'd done to Bayly. It seemed all of them had read the papers, knew how the poor boy had suffered. In a clipped tone, lips pinched, she replied, "He's my son. Are you going to ask how I could let him be kidnapped, or why I didn't protect him from that bastard of a father?"

"Nooo," Jorab said warily, brows dipping. "I was going to say I've met him; he's a nice kid."

Flushing again, Livonia ducked her head. "Yes, he is. He's a wonderful young man."

Rabby held out his elbow like a gentleman. "Shall we?"

Livonia slid her hand into the crook of his arm. "Lead the way."

Inside the Silver Sparrow, Ivanna Jugson—along with the Malfoys—was becoming increasingly fretful. Addressing Lucius, she entreated, "Jorab's been in the loo a long time. Perhaps you could check on him."

She received a blank stare before he drawled, "You are, of course, joking."

Narcissa whacked a booted foot into his shin, making him stifle a yelp. "Darling, if something is wrong, he may require assistance."

Rather than argue a losing battle, and having fought enough of them to know which were lost causes, Lucius excused himself and headed for the restroom, grumbling under his breath. _Men_ did not go to the toilet in groups! They did not 'check on' their friends' progress. If Rabby had an intestinal disturbance, he didn't want to know about it! Hell, if he was shagging the waitress—also fit in the not-wanting-to-know-about-it category.

Duly pissed off, he banged on the restroom door, drawing the attention of those unfortunate enough to have been seated nearby the loo. "Jorab!" he hissed.

No answer. He tried the door, which opened easily…into an unoccupied room. Son. Of. A. Bitch! He was sooo going to hex that tosser the next time he saw him! Shoving down his ire and plastering on a concerned, yet soothing smile, he returned to the table. "I'm sorry to report, Ivanna, that Jorab is quite ill. I've asked the staff to see to it that he gets home safely." He sat down and gestured for the waiter. "We may as well order."


	21. The Great Escape

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 21 (The Great Escape)

**March 1, 1973**

Lucius apparated in a seedy area of London behind a dumpster on an alongside with Bellatrix, vaguely resenting the power she held over him. At not quite seventeen, he had yet to learn the art; once he got back to school, he planned to make apparating a top priority. Bellatrix took off at a trot down the alley, her spiky heels clicking wildly, leaving Lucius and a couple of bums staring after her. He wondered why she wasn't freezing in that ludicrous, tiny outfit.

"Bella," he hissed at her. "Bella!"

She ignored him, of course, and he was forced to resort to chasing her down. Sensible footwear has its uses. He snagged her arm, bringing her to a halt and whirling her around, barely ducking in time to avoid a hard left hook. His arm encircled her waist and he lifted her off the ground, promptly tripped, and careened into the side of a brick building, where they both collapsed in a heap.

"Hey!" a man's voice shouted. "Leave her alone!"

Lucius shook his head to clear it and peered at a young man striding into the alley. "Who? _Her_?" He pointed at the witch struggling to her feet, wrinkling his nose as if he'd ever assault someone of her caliber.

"If she don't wanna go with you, bugger off!" demanded the intruder.

Wand gripped in his hand, ready to yank from his pocket, Lucius thought better of it. There were witnesses. "Thank you for your presumptive advice," he drawled coldly.

Bellatrix eyed the man up and down, then spat at him. "Filthy muggle! Mind your own business!"

Lucius had to forcibly restrain her from drawing her wand. "Bella, we need to go. Now."

"That's what I was trying to do!" she screeched, stalking away haughtily in the same direction she'd first begun.

In a frustrated outburst, unwilling to tackle her again, he bellowed, "You're going the _wrong way_!"

She froze mid-stride, spun on her heel, and marched back to him. "Fine, smartass, you lead the way."

Bellatrix was no more amused when, upon reaching a hidden entryway of a nondescript, shabby building, Lucius unceremoniously shoved her through without warning. She tumbled backward, landing on her rump; when he walked in after her, she sent a curse sailing past his ear, missing only because she'd not taken careful aim in her hurry to hex the little twerp. He leaped aside, trying to hide behind a tiny old trunk amid the rubble of the dank room.

"Bella, stop it! That's the way you have to come in the first time." When Macnair had brought him here a mere few months ago, it was the way he'd been introduced.

"Yeah, right," she sneered, narrowing her eyes to slits.

Lucius drew his wand in the event he might need to ward off another Bella-special. How in the world had Narcissa survived childhood with this nutcase in the same house? If the dark lord hadn't demanded he find and bring a new follower, he'd not even be here now; if he hadn't happened to know a huge supporter who'd been chomping at the bit to meet the dark wizard, he'd probably be dead now for failing in his assignment.

"Where is he, Lucius?" she shouted. "If you tricked me, I'll—"

She had no chance to finish. Instantly the two were transported to Voldemort's parlour room, where Bellatrix seemed to have forgotten all about Lucius. Eyes aglow, she turned circles in the room, gawking unabashedly about. Moments later Voldemort apparated with a 'crack'.

Remembering his manners, Lucius dropped to his knees. "My lord, I've brought you a follower, as you ordered."

Not to be outdone, Bellatrix threw herself prostrate on the floor. "Lord Voldemort!" The word was almost a sigh of pure contentment.

The dark wizard scanned the two. As his red eyes roamed over Lucius, the boy ducked his head in an attempt to appear humble as well as to guard against any mind probes. Bellatrix lifted her head to peek at the imposing figure who was every bit as awesome as she'd imagined. When his eyes met hers, her breath quickened and she found herself reaching out to him. Voldemort permitted himself a small smile. The wayward boy had brought him a willing servant indeed, a soul he sensed in tune with his own.

"Come forward, Bellatrix," he said.

Bella crawled, almost slithered up to the hem of his robe, which she kissed with a fervor he'd not witnessed in any of his other minions. It was a nice touch; he'd have to make it mandatory for the rest, he decided.

"Why do you come to me?"

"To serve you, my lord, in every way. To uphold pureblood wizardry, to rid the world of muggles and mudbloods."

Voldemort directed his comment at Lucius, who was busy wishing she would shut up with her excessive sucking up. "This, young Malfoy, is the reply of a devoted supporter. Hardly the response I got from you, was it?"

Lucius flushed, suddenly afraid he'd allowed his mind to be penetrated again. "Forgive me, master. I didn't know any better at the time. Of course it's my ambition to rid our world of these blemishes against pureblood rule and domination."

Voldemort debated internally for only a second. He could ask more questions, he could probe the mind of this witch, but it was unnecessary. She endeavored to hold nothing back, her answers were as refreshingly honest as they were welcome. "Bellatrix, stretch out your arm."

She hastily did so and he touched it with his wand. Immediately the room was filled with a tremendous shriek of pain, calming down to a whimper while she rocked back and forth on the floor cradling her arm like a baby, every so often gazing at it and kissing the Mark tenderly.

"Thank you, master," she breathed. "I will be your most loyal servant."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**August 30, 2000**

_March 1, 1973_

_ A new follower has joined our ranks today: Bellatrix Lestrange, pureblood witch of great power. When Lucius informed me he'd selected a woman to bring, I was understandably ambivalent about the situation. While females are capable of performing on every level equal to males, they often harbour an annoying propensity to __mercy__ and __pity__. Hardly conducive to serving in the ranks of my Death Eaters._

_ Fortunately, I was able to observe Bellatrix in action on this, our first—and auspicious— meeting. I'd ordered my men to capture an auror and secure him in the dungeon area for Malfoy to practice the Cruciatus. We've made some progress on his tormenting skills, yet the boy remains sorely lacking in brutality; I shall train him to obey me if it kills him. In fact, I did succeed in goading him to action by holding him under the curse and threatening his little girlfriend with the same. Once enough hatred is stirred up, the Unforgivables flow freely. He doesn't enjoy it, more is the pity. Perhaps in time. But I digress._

_ I can't say the same for Bellatrix. She not only offered to torture the auror, she attacked with relish. At first her attempt was unproductive, but after I'd explained the foundational principles, taught her to inhale his misery as if her own life depended upon it, her spell struck with a force I've rarely witnessed—not counting my own, naturally. It was beautiful to watch._

_Beautiful to watch_, Severus read, shaking his head. He grimaced sadly. Bella had been a lunatic to begin with, she hadn't needed to join the dark lord to satisfy her thirst for evil. But so many others had been drawn by promises that turned out to be pie in the sky dreams. What a waste of lives, so many lives, both Death Eater and their foes, all because a maniac was able to rally them around a flawed cause. How different things might have been had Tom Riddle never lived. Certainly his own life would not be the same.

And Lucius, his best friend...Severus hadn't found out till he was set to become a Death Eater himself how Voldemort had often punished Lucius with the Cruciatus when he was a new recruit, how he'd made the lad afflict others…it sickened Snape then, and it sickened him all over again to recall. This diary entry verified what hadn't needed verification, stirred old memories best left untouched. Lucius was his friend—his only friend at the time—a boy who'd been loyal and kind to him, and not because he wanted something in return, for Severus had nothing to offer except knowledge and potions. Yes, Lucius was arrogant and snobbish with most people, that had never been in question. But Malfoy hadn't been the cold, heartless bastard so many accused him of being, and despite everything he'd endured at Voldemort's hands, despite his years of service to the dark lord, he was still not an evil man.

Time and experience had hardened him, changed him from the naïve lad who had to be threatened and tortured to use an Unforgivable…it was inevitable. He'd learned cruelty out of necessity, he'd learned to torture on command, he'd proven himself less than an exemplary citizen on more than one occasion. But he'd never sunk to murder; he retained a desire to not only be accepted, but _acceptable_ based on his merits. How many people, serving the likes of Voldemort for all those years, could lay claim to that?

Certainly not Bellatrix, though Severus was relatively sure she'd killed long before ever meeting Voldemort. The two crackpots together made a formidable duo that the world was much better off without. And now that Tom Riddle had finally stopped making unscheduled appearances in his brain—two full weeks!—he could work on erasing the memories. That is, he _could_ work on it if he didn't still feel a deep-seated need to read these blasted diaries! And when were they ever going to let him out of here?

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Aline, I hadn't expected to see you here." Salazar Slytherin straightened up in his portrait and gazed down at the witch in the corridor. "How are you? How is Severus?"

Aline ignored the first question; she'd grown tired of everyone constantly asking, when all she could do was lie or answer truthfully: her feet hurt, her back ached, her rotund stomach made it impossible to bend over, she was sick of being pregnant, and for several hours she'd been getting crampy pains. "That's why I'm here, Salazar. I talked to Albus, but he really doesn't know, so I figured I'd come to you…I'm sorry, I'm rambling." Her doleful brown eyes fixed on his. "The countercharm you and Albus provided is working, Tom is weakening. The problem is, we don't know when it's safe to bring Severus home. I hoped you could tell me."

"Ah." Salazar crossed his arms and leaned back. He sighed and shook his head. "I wish I could tell you, Aline."

"But you made up the spell! You have to know something!" she exclaimed in desperation.

"I do." It pleased him to see a glint of hope return to her eyes. "Severus still feels a compulsion to read the diaries, am I correct? That means the damage to his brain is not yet fully undone. When he no longer feels any need to read them, he will be cured."

"I see," said Aline softly. "That could be a long time."

"Don't misunderstand me. Tom Riddle's influence, his ability to take over Severus continues to diminish, and Severus will be in complete control long before he is able to cease reading the books. Once he reaches this point, it will be safe to allow him to go free, and he can carry on the therapy of reading outside of his prison." Salazar smiled. This was good news. Why wasn't she happy? True, he didn't know _how to tell_ when Severus had reached the point of being in control, but it was still glad tidings. "Are you alright?"

Aline shook her head, groaning and doubling over where she stood. "Oh, God!" A film of clear liquid spread around her feet. She tried to access her wand to clean it up, but the waves of pain were too strong. Instead, she clutched the wall and slid to her knees. "Help me!"

Staring, aghast, Salazar hesitated. Then all at once he bolted from his frame. He hated leaving her alone, but what could a portrait do? He had to find live people! He darted through a meadow of grazing cows, peering into a corridor as he ran. There was no one about. He nearly knocked a Musketeer on his arse in his hurry to check out the Gryffindor area, and barely escaped a rapier to the heart on his way out. The guests at a banquet did not appreciate the way he slammed into their tables, upsetting the contents onto their laps.

He dashed into a portrait with a lonely-looking woman, and was about to scoot out when he spied two people walking toward him in the hall. "You there! Stop! Stop, I say!"

Bayly and Andromeda glanced around for the source of the voice.

"Up here! It's Salazar Slytherin," he snapped. Finally! As their eyes turned to him, he said, "Mistress Snape has gone into labour in the dungeon, in front of my portrait. She requires assistance."

Andromeda, the Muggle Studies teacher, gasped. "Bayly, go get Poppy. I'll find Aline." So saying, she ran back the way they'd come and pounded down the steps to the dungeon. Having been a Slytherin during her time at Hogwarts, she was intimately acquainted with the layout of the dungeon labyrinth, unlike Bayly or any of the other teachers.

Bayly hurried off to the infirmary to do as ordered, before making a stop in Headmaster Snape's office to use the floo. If he failed to bring Dr. Livingston, Snape would pitch a fit of massive proportions.

"That's right, don't anyone acknowledge me," Salazar griped out loud to the empty corridor. He got up and huffed back to his own portrait frame.

"I can't—have the babies—here," Aline panted to Andy, who'd forced her to sit back, propped against the wall. A hard moan rang out as another contraction racked her body.

"Poppy's coming. She'll help you to the infirmary." _I hope. Unless it's too late._

"The floor—is dirty," lamented Aline. "And I—want Severus."

Andy squeezed her hand. "I know." There was nothing else she could say, no comforting 'he's on his way', so she crouched in silence beside her, glancing repeatedly up the corridor. Aside from herself, and maybe Aline, none of the teachers knew the maze of halls down here. What if Poppy got lost and couldn't find them in time? "Aline, I'm going to start levitating you toward the exit, alright?"

The other witch nodded. "Take me—to my old—quarters. Before I—married Severus."

That made sense. The Head of House quarters were much closer than the infirmary, furnished, comfortable, familiar—and Poppy ought to be able to find them. Andromeda drew her wand to carefully levitate Aline a mere few inches off the floor, just in case she had to set her down suddenly. They made it to right outside the door of Aline's old suite when Poppy came scurrying along.

A swift wave of her wand over Aline's abdomen, and a brief bout of poking and prodding were all she needed. The mediwitch's eyes widened as she flung open the door. "Bring her in. I've rarely heard of first children coming so quickly, but these babies are in a hurry."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Severus." Lucius came in almost hesitantly, yet he wore an expression of muted joy. He waited for Snape to look up from his reading. Always reading…that was good, right? Yes, it must be, if it meant more reversal of damage.

"What are you doing here, Lucius? I didn't expect you back until—" Severus jumped to his feet, his heart hammering wildly, his stomach doing obscene acrobatics. In a flash he was at the bars. "What's wrong? Is Aline alright? Has something happened to the children?"

Malfoy raised a hand and smiled, though the smile didn't touch his eyes. Not when his best friend was incarcerated for God only knew how long, and at a time like this. "Everyone is in perfect health. In fact, I came to inform you that you have two beautiful, healthy sons—identical twins. They were born a few hours ago at Hogwarts, and Aline is resting there."

"She had the babies," Severus murmured, visibly slumping. Unspoken were the words _without me_. He had two boys. That was good. He'd hoped for a boy and a girl, but this was wonderful, too. He'd so very much wanted to be there for Aline, to watch his children enter the world. He'd missed that opportunity with Jacinta; this was supposed to be different. A lump forming in his throat was shoved down with a snarl. "Thank you for telling me. Or should I say thank you for keeping me prisoner when you've seen time and again that I'm well?"

"Severus, please don't."

"Don't _what_, Lucius? Don't be sick and tired of being in here? Don't be furious that I missed the birth of my children? Don't be sick at heart that my wife needs me and I can't go to her?" He kicked the bars, hard; they rattled ever so slightly. "If you consider me your friend, let me out. Now."

"I can't do that," Lucius protested. Over his shoulder he noted Rabby and Dolph rising from their seats, though what they planned to do remained a mystery.

"LET ME OUT!" Severus bellowed, attacking the bars with a vengeance, kicking and shaking them over and over until his feet ached in his boots and his arms felt like jelly. "Damn it, I swear I'll make you pay for this! Let me out!" He dashed to the table, where he heaved a good number of the books onto the ground with one swipe of his arm, then he picked up a couple of heavy volumes and flung them at his friend. They struck the bars and bounced to the floor.

"Severus, quit! I'll find a way, I swear I will," Lucius pleaded, ducking from another book that managed to sail between the cage bars.

"A way to what? Determine I'm better?" howled Snape, chucking another trio of books at him in rapid succession. "I've told you I am, I've begged you, and you won't believe me! How can I prove it? You'll never believe me! Why don't you just do us all a favour and _avada_ _kedavra_ me? I'd rather be dead than stay in here forever." Yet another book clanged into the bars.

Lucius backed away, sorrow evident in every part of his being. He could hardly blame Snape for his outburst. Would he react differently if _he_ were the one detained in this hellhole for months, then kept from his wife and newborn children when they needed him? Probably not. And he couldn't even bring the boys for Severus to see; apparating at such a young age was frowned upon, as it invited injury to the delicate bodies. "I _will_ find a way to get you out of here," he said quietly. It rang loudly in the icy silence.

"Sod off," Snape replied nastily, and turned his back on the man.

Lucius wheeled around; he spied Jorab scant meters away. As a vent to his current frustration, added to his displeasure at Jorab's disappearance from the restaurant during his date several days ago, he raised his wand and blasted the man so hard he flew back and crashed against the wall, then sagged there panting. Dolph rose up indignantly, wand in hand as Lucius stalked out.

Severus heard the swishing of Malfoy's cloak and the soft thud of his boots as he left. Another round of fury overtook him. Had he not only this morning been deliberating on Lucius' good points? What a crock! Malfoy was as self-serving and duplicitous as they came; he probably hadn't wasted a single minute on trying to find a way to ascertain when it was safe for his 'mate' to go free. Severus would rot in this place if he depended on Lucius for salvation!

Wendolph chased Lucius out of the castle ruins, set to retaliate for the affront against his brother. Before Lucius had a chance to disapparate, he growled, "What the f—k was that, Malfoy? You're pissed at Snape, so you take it out on Rabby?"

"No, that was for leaving Jugson's widow in the lurch while on a date with Narcissa and myself. He made us look like fools!" Lucius snapped back.

Undeterred, Dolph raised his wand. A second later, Rabby slapped it down. He stood beside his brother, slightly hunched from pain, one arm wrapped round his stomach. "Let it go, Dolph. I deserved it."

Lucius fixed him with a grey-eyed glare. "Of course you did. I could barely choke down my dinner, I was so irate. You're lucky I didn't catch up with you that night! And for some unknown reason, Mrs. Jugson wishes to see you again."

"I'm not going out with her," Rab stated.

"Then I suggest you inform her," Lucius drawled in a low voice. "I'm done with it, as is Narcissa."

Contrary to the words, it was not a suggestion and Jorab knew it. Malfoy valued his precious reputation, and making him look bad in front of peers only served to enrage him—evidently. If he didn't let the witch know his intentions, and phrase it in a way that made her feel good about the whole thing, Lucius was liable to curse his arse into next week. "I"ll owl her," Rab said.

"You do that." Lucius disapparated, leaving the brothers behind.

Severus glanced over his shoulder. The Goodman brothers had gone after Malfoy; he was alone for the first time…not that it afforded him any opportunities he didn't have when they were present, but he was so tired of being watched like an animal. He expected them to return momentarily, likely to discuss Snape's eruption and Malfoy's little outburst. Let them, he didn't care. In fact, he'd give them something to _really_ talk about. A semi-crazy notion had struck him out of the blue. He had thought fleetingly of it a few times in the past weeks, but he had no idea if it would work, and he'd been waiting for Lucius to free him…apparently that wasn't going to happen, so this was his last resort. He had to try it. When Riddle had controlled him, the dark wizard had never considered the idea because no house elf owed allegiance to _him_. He could not have commanded one to do a single thing. Well, Riddle wasn't running the show anymore.

"Winky," he said, practically in a whisper. "Winky, if you hear me, come."

Moments later, the pink-clad elf popped into his cell, ears drooping and golfball-sized eyes bugging to see his atrocious accommodations. "Master Headmaster—"

"Dolph! An elf!" Rabby shouted, running to the bars, where he was helpless to do a thing.

"Take me away from here," Severus ordered. He snatched ahold of her strangely over-large hand attached to a sticklike arm.

And they were gone.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Evening had fallen. Severus paced in agitation round and round the Potions lab. No one would be coming in tonight, so he was safe here. The only person he might have to worry about was Bayly, and he was currently in Aline's Head of House suite with Gloria and Aline. He wished he had his wand—hell, he wished he knew who had it or where it was, and he'd retrieve it himself. He felt naked without it. The last he'd seen of it, before being knocked unconscious with a rock, was at Aberforth's tavern.

Winky had been able to Apparate him to Hogwarts, despite the wards and barriers blocking human apparition, due to the special dispensation granted to Hogwarts elves by Dumbledore. After the Chamber of Secrets debacle, wherein Dobby had been in and out at will, Albus thought it prudent to eliminate the possibility of Death Eaters apparating in with their elves. Since that time, Hogwarts elves could penetrate places ordinary elves could not, though Severus had instructed Winky to watch and listen at the door rather than barge into Aline's private space. Those huge ears and eyes had to come in handy some time.

More than two hours had passed since his escape. He wondered if Aline had been notified. He felt certain Dolph and Rab had gone straight to Malfoy, who'd organized them and the other guards to search all known haunts of the Potions master. Hopefully, they'd not consider Hogwarts, which for all they knew was impenetrable. Damn it, what if Bayly stayed all night in the room as a precaution? Severus wouldn't be able to go in! Or if he got in, would Aline want to see him? He shook his head. He was just borrowing trouble.

There was a soft, muffled rapping at the door, then a great, round head with long, pointy ears poked inside. "Master Headmaster Snape, sir," she whispered rather loudly. "The coats are clear." She grinned at him.

Snape stared back at her. "You mean, 'the coast is clear'?"

Winky nodded vehemently, her ears flapping enthusiastically. "Mistress Snape sends humans away, saying she tired and Master Headmaster's beautiful babies is sleeping."

It was time. Severus' stomach tightened as he followed her stealthily to what had been for many years his own quarters. Winky pressed her ear up to the door once more, flattening it on the wood. Satisfied, he touched the lock with her finger and it made a small click. She turned the knob and slinked inside, where the dark was every bit as oppressive as in the corridor. Snape thought briefly that the elf's eyes must resemble a cat's, for she had no trouble wending her way to the bedroom.

A lamp on the nightstand glowed a warm, subdued light, enough for Severus to see that Aline was not there. He heard water running in the adjacent bathroom. Quietly he stole to the corner of the room where a crib had been erected, most likely in a hurry, for no one expected Aline to give birth at Hogwarts.

He gazed down at the two perfect, tiny boys cuddled against one another, face to face. One infant was sucking his thumb, the other rested one hand on his brother's cheek. They both sported a shock of black hair, but beyond that he could see little in the dim light. His breath caught in his throat. These miracles were his children, his darling babies with the woman he loved more than he'd ever believed was possible. This should be an occasion of celebration, yet here he was sneaking in like a thief.

"Get away from my sons."

Severus spun to see Aline's wand aimed straight at his heart, unwavering.

The look in her eyes said she was poised to shoot. "Now."


	22. Man on the Run

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 22 (Man on the Run)

**Evening of August 30, 2000**

_A lamp on the nightstand glowed a warm, subdued light, enough for Severus to see that Aline was not there. He heard water running in the adjacent bathroom. Quietly he stole to the corner of the room where a crib had been erected, most likely in a hurry, for no one expected Aline to give birth at Hogwarts._

_ He gazed down at the two perfect, tiny boys cuddled against one another, face to face. One infant was sucking his thumb, the other rested one hand on his brother's cheek. They both sported a shock of black hair, but beyond that he could see little in the dim light. His breath caught in his throat. These miracles were his children, his darling babies with the woman he loved more than he'd ever believed was possible. This should be an occasion of celebration, yet here he was sneaking in like a thief._

_ "Get away from my sons."_

_ Severus spun to see Aline's wand aimed straight at his heart, unwavering._

_ The look in her eyes said she was poised to shoot. "Now_."

Severus very slowly lifted his arms up, palms out, to indicate he was unarmed. He took two large sideways steps away from the crib with Winky following, clinging to his pantleg. "Aline, I would not harm my children—or any children. You know that."

"Severus wouldn't," Aline agreed, edging toward the crib and casting a quick glance down to assure herself all was well. The wand leveled at her husband did not budge. "Tom Riddle, on the other hand, tried to kill Harry Potter when he was a toddler. I don't know which one you are."

"Aline, it is I!" Severus exclaimed, stopping short of stamping his foot in frustration. "I've been telling you that for two weeks."

"I've heard it before, right before you changed into…him."

Her lips pinched into a tight line. When Bayly had told her Severus was loose, details were very sketchy, but never in her wildest dreams had she thought he'd come here to Hogwarts! Well, alright, maybe her _wildest_ dreams… Outwardly unmoved, inside she was dying. Exhausted beyond her limits, physically and emotionally, she did not need this. The temptation to believe him acted like a siren drawing her in, beckoning her to run to him and break down sobbing in his arms. But she could not. Those two innocent babies behind her deserved the security of knowing this man was truly their father, that he would not revert to a maniac and place them in jeopardy.

She looked at the elf, then back at Severus, and things suddenly clicked into place. "Winky helped you escape."

"Yes. I couldn't take it anymore, I had to see you and my babies." He clenched his jaw to keep his face impassive, and failed dreadfully. His normally aloof countenance showed how wretchedly sad he was, how lost without his anchor…and it only served to distress Aline more.

"Winky, you know Headmaster Snape hasn't been well—Minerva told all the elves. Why did you bring him here?" asked Aline. A nagging voice in the back of her mind told her she ought to hex him and be done with it, let this be sorted later, but she couldn't make herself do it…not yet. Just speaking with him, hearing his deep, smooth voice felt like a balm on her harried nerves.

Winky blinked her globe-like orbs several times, looking confused. "Master Headmaster Snape is Winky's master."

"He hasn't been himself," Aline persisted, not willing to go into the details of it with the creature.

"Snape is himself, Mistress," the elf proclaimed, nodding to herself. "Him looks like Snape, and sounds like Snape, and smells like Snape, and billows big robes like Snape. And not treats Winky like dunderhead students."

"Smells like Snape?" repeated Aline. Then again, those big noses probably did have the ability to pick up more scent than a human's nose.

Winky positioned herself so close to Severus she seemed plastered to his leg. "Winky is not stupid. Wizards cannot Polyjuice so easy to fool elves…except in families, where humans smells too much the same. Headmaster Snape is not Polyjuiced."

"That wasn't what I meant," said Aline.

"Honey, if Voldemort could command the elves, wouldn't he have tried using an elf to escape long before this?" Severus reasoned. Warily he lowered his arms, which were losing sensation in the fingertips from lack of blood. "And why in Merlin's name would he come here? No elf owed him allegiance, but they do to me."

She was caving, he could see it. The logic of his argument was not lost on her, despite her misgivings. Still, mother instinct was stronger. "Let's go talk to Dumbledore, see what he says."

"That old crackpot?" Severus snapped, shaking his head so his hair swished about his face. "He loves making my life miserable. Of course he'll go against me."

"Then I'll fire-call Lucius and see what he suggests." Aline flicked the wand slightly to the left, indicating he move. "I'd rather not have to hex you, but I will."

Severus sighed heavily. She would, of that he was certain, and it wouldn't be done lightly. That witch had power behind her spells. He should have known—he did know—that nothing was ever so easy for him. He'd hoped beyond hope that Aline would discern the truth, and he suspected she did, yet for the sake of their children she must be hyper-cautious. He could hardly blame her for that. Conversely, he had no intention of letting Malfoy drag him back to that loathsome cell. He placed a hand on Winky's head and said, "Let's go."

According to the prearranged agreement, Winky heard the key words and disapparated with Severus in tow. Until he could prove himself cured, this was going to be a long, lonely road.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

They were in a large, dark, empty field. Severus didn't know where it was, nor did he care. He was brooding, which took all the strength he had at the moment. His escape from the cell had been an impulsive act, something he was not accustomed to; life had shown him that nothing good ever came of impulsiveness, and this was case in point. Generally he liked to think out a situation from every angle, plan the details, prepare contingency plans…now here he was, sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere because he'd failed to _think_. What in bleeding hell was wrong with him? Had he spent too much time locked up with Tommy-boy promenading about in his head?

He leaned forward, dropping his face into his hands. He must prove himself to Aline, but in the meantime, he needed refuge. They'd be after him, Malfoy and the rest. He couldn't go to the Prince estate, or back to Hogwarts…certainly not to Lucius' house, or to Nott's, or to any of the Death Eaters, who'd blast him on sight. Without a wand, he was virtually defenseless, for his physical prowess wasn't likely to overpower anyone he knew, except perhaps Regulus.

Winky toddled over to pet his head. "Master Headmaster Snape is looking so sad. Winky loves Master, won't tell if Master cries."

Vaguely amused, although he did feel like weeping, Severus sneered and answered, "I think I will forego it, thank you." In the deafening silence, he reflected for a few more minutes. Finally he said, "I need my wand. That is the first order of business. And I know how to get it."

Less than a minute later, Winky apparated them through the complex wizard anti-apparition barriers surrounding Spinner's End. They landed in the living room, where a very astonished Regulus had just sat down on the couch and propped his feet up after a long day at work.

"_Accio_ wand," Severus commanded, stretching out his hand to catch his friend's wand.

Now vulnerable and alarmed, and in shock over seeing Snape on the loose, Reg stared for a split second before annoyance took over. "Oh, shit! You're gonna kill me now, aren't you?"

"I hadn't planned on it," Snape answered dryly.

"Then you might want to point that thing somewhere else."

Severus let it drop to his side, clutched tightly lest Regulus try to summon it back. "Look, Reg, I'm not here to cause trouble, I'm just sick of being imprisoned. I need my family, and I need you to help me. Where is my wand?"

Regulus shrugged, still miffed at losing his own wand so easily. "Love to help you out, but I don't know. And how do I know you're not Tom Riddle masquerading as Snape?"

"Because if I were, I'd have _a.k_.d your arse by now!" Snape retorted, black brows dipping dangerously low.

"Maybe you're trying to gain my trust," Regulus said, crossing his arms.

Snape walked over and whapped him across the head with an open hand. "Like that?"

"Ow!" Regulus rubbed at his temple while glaring at the other man. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Funny you should ask. I was debating that very question earlier today, but I doubt we have time for an analysis of my psyche. Wand, Regulus." He wiggled his fingers impatiently, as if the object were going to appear through sheer willpower.

"Lucius took it," admitted the youth. "I don't know where it is, I swear. Besides, you've got mine. Let's not be greedy."

"I don't want that piece of rubbish, I want mine!" Severus sulked. He realized at once how childish he sounded; all that was missing to complete the tantrum was some old-fashioned foot stomping and perhaps a roll or two on the floor. "No offense."

"Geez, why should I take offense when all I've done is try to protect the world—your wife and kids included—from a nutjob, only to get myself almost murdered, thank you very much, then have you steal my wand and insult me? Nope, no offense at all." Reg's lips puckered into a pout and he threw himself against the back of the couch, crossing his arms once more.

"That whole trying-to-kill-you thing—that _wasn't me_," Severus protested, then his tone softened. "But I am sorry." How could he be cross with his friend when he was protecting the ones Snape loved the most in the world? It made things more complicated this way, to put Reg in this position, and that irritated Severus no end. Under his breath, he grumbled, "Little twat."

There was a sharp popping sound, and Kreacher stood in the doorway to the kitchen, carrying a tray of food. A wave of his bony hand sent it onto the counter as he meandered over to the humans, head cocked and ugly face bemused. "Good Master Regulus, why is Severmort here?"

"Long story," answered Reg.

"I escaped," said Severus.

"Okay, not so long," Reg amended, continuing to pout.

"And 'Severmort'?" Snape repeated incredulously. "I should whack you for that, too."

"He made it up!" exclaimed Regulus, pointing an accusing finger at Kreacher, who was currently facing Winky and trying to look menacing. Both elves had their backs hunched, ears laid back flat to their skulls, legs apart like mini-sumo wrestlers ready to defend their humans.

Severus shook his head and rolled his eyes. This was getting him nowhere. "I'll be borrowing your wand for a while, it seems. You can go to Ollivander's and get a new one—which I'll pay for," he added, rolling his eyes again at the put-out look on Reg's face.

"I like this one. You'd better not ruin it or lose it." He ignored Snape's death glare aimed his way. "I got it at your sister-in-law's shop in Salem, you know, and that's a bloody long way to go. I hurled twice—"

"Oh, shut up!" roared Severus. "I won't damage your precious wand!" He nudged Winky, who stopped glowering at Kreacher long enough to gaze up at him. "Come with me. I know where we can go for a few days."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I don't like this, Narcissa. It feels wrong." If she weren't sore and worn out from childbirth, Aline would be pacing the floor. Instead, she reclined on the sofa in the main sitting area at Black Manor, watching her infants in the cradle beside her on the floor. The boys were at the moment cooing softly and exploring each other's faces with their prying little fingers.

"Severus can't get in here due to the blood wards and blocked floo," Narcissa answered. "Until we know it's safe, you must think of the children's welfare." That was the only reason she herself had come here with Ladon and Khala while Lucius was out hunting for Snape.

Her children, one on either side of the cradle, knelt up and latched onto the wooden slats as they peered in. Ladon looked over to his mother and smiled, gesturing at the squirming tots. "Mama, babies! Auntie 'Line's babies!"

Khala, supporting herself on the bars, reached her delicate hand through to pet Adriel's tummy. A look of awe crossed her pale features. These beings were even smaller than she was! "Baby," she cooed, patting gently with the flat of her hand.

"Yes, sweetie, that's Adriel," said Narcissa, her sharp eyes trained on her own offspring to make sure they behaved themselves. "The other baby is Aidan."

Khala's hand drifted over to pat the second one's downy head. These creatures were different from her and Ladon and Mama and Fa'er and Day-co. They had black tufts on their heads like Unco Sev'rus, instead of yellow. And they were all pink and wrinkly with big brown eyes. They were cute toys, but Mama seemed disinclined to let her play with them, so she only touched carefully.

"That's enough now. Ladon, Khala, go play with Teddy over here where I can see you." Narcissa lifted Khala and placed her on a blanket in the corner. Ladon gave a disappointed scowl, but he joined them. With the plethora of toys Teddy had amassed, including a fascinating transparent ball with an odd man-like figure inside, they soon forgot about the new arrivals.

"Narcissa, I can't shake the feeling that it really is Severus this time," Aline went on, as if they hadn't been interrupted. "And now he's gone off who knows where. I'm worried about him."

There'd be a whole lot more to worry about if Severus was _not_ himself, but it hardly seemed productive to bring that up. Narcissa sincerely hoped it was true, she wished the best for Severus and Aline, so all she said was, "Severus can take care of himself. He's proven that a hundred times over."

"I can't and won't remain in hiding indefinitely," Aline insisted. "He's been getting stronger, we all saw that, and I have to know if it's finally _him_ again. If Lucius and the others don't find him soon, I'm going to join the search."

"That could be dangerous," warned Narcissa. Snape at his best was one to be wary of if he felt backed into a corner; Snape with an addled mind—addled by Voldemort, no less—could prove a whirlwind of destruction and peril for the wizarding world and beyond. "You've also barely begun to recuperate."

"I don't care." Aline reached down to her infants, who'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. She caressed their tiny faces with her fingers. "He might have hurt Aidan and Adriel, but he didn't. I do believe he only wanted to see them. I have to get him back."

The corners of Narcissa's mouth tipped upward involuntarily. Even now, when the situation looked so bleak, Aline demonstrated a steadfast love for Severus, so like the love she herself felt for Lucius. "If I know Lucius, and I do, he'll scour the planet for Severus. I'm confident he'll be found very soon."

What had been meant as a platitude when she began had ended in a resounding note of truth. Severus was Lucius' best friend; he'd spare no expense in locating him, especially now when it was unclear whether Snape posed a risk to society. And he'd do so as quickly as possible, before it became necessary to involve the authorities. She smiled to herself. Lucius had a special, extraordinary way about him.

"Would you like some tea, Aline? Try to relax. Soon the children will wake up hungry, and you'll have no peace."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Outside the broken down castle ruins of Voldemort's old headquarters, Lucius, Rab, Dolph, Marshal, and Nott were gathered in a tight huddle, under protection of a frankly unnecessary silencing charm. There was not a another soul for miles around.

"We've patrolled Diagon Alley and surrounding areas," Dolph was saying, gesturing toward his brother and Marshal. "No sign of Snape."

"He hasn't gone home, either," Nott interjected. "I put up a special ward that will signal me if it's broken."

"Minerva McGonagall has Hogwarts on high alert, including the ghosts," Lucius said. While the old professor was not privy to Severus' true condition—nor to the fact that he'd been imprisoned, not quarantined—she did appear concerned for his welfare and that of the students who would shortly be making their way to Hogwarts for the beginning of school term. If Snape showed his face there again, someone would discover it, Snape would be detained, and Malfoy would be notified.

"What about the kids—Bayly, Theo, and Regulus?" asked Rab. "Haven't you alerted them?"

"Theo knows," Nott said. "He's checking out Hogsmeade with Bayly."

"And I was on my way to see Regulus, to notify him," Lucius finished. "He's been hard to track down."

"Maybe Snape went to see his good mate, Harry Potter," Marshal quipped, guffawing. The rest merely turned to look blankly at him, unimpressed. "Aw, come on, that was funny!"

Lucius smiled pleasantly. "Here's something even funnier: go to Hogsmeade and help the boys. Make sure you ask Dumbledore's brother if he's seen him." After the mess Snape had made of the goat pen, and the scattering of Aberforth's animals, the old man wouldn't be any too happy to see Snape, that was certain. "Dolph, Rabby, come with me. We have a stop to make before our final destination."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Knock, knock, knock._ Regulus hesitated. It couldn't be Snape again, he'd just barge in like last time. _Pound. Pound. Pound._ Whoever it was sounded angry, and if it was a drunk from the neighborhood, Reg was not up to dealing with it. Not without his wand, at any rate.

"I know you're in there! The light is on, and I can see you!" growled a very familiar voice.

Reg jumped off the couch, bounded to the door, and flung it open. "Hey, Lucius…and Dolph…and Rab. What brings you here?"

The three men filed past him, with Rabby closing the door behind them. Lucius' gaze automatically roamed the room before he felt free to speak. "Severus has escaped. I sent an owl hours ago, but got no reply."

"I never got an owl," Reg said, shifting self-consciously. "I was working at the joke shop till a little while ago."

Lucius' eyebrows raised a touch at the mention of Weasley's shop. "If you ever hope to have a reputable career, you'd do well to expend more attention on business training with me, and less on nonsense."

Dolph sidled up to the young man, staring in a way that made the boy extremely uncomfortable. "Why don't you seem worried that Snape is loose? He did try to kill you."

"Well, um—why would he come here?" replied Regulus. He took a single step away, only to back into Jorab. Now he started to look nervous.

"You don't even look surprised to hear about Snape," Rabby added, whirling the youth to face him. His wand was already out, mere centimeters from Regulus' cheek.

"Lucius!" yelped the boy.

Malfoy strolled over, eyes hooded, and gave Black a perfunctory glance up and down. Was it possible Snape had Polyjuiced himself to look like Regulus? And if he had, what had he done with the boy? It chilled him to the marrow to even consider that Tom Riddle may have murdered the kid and they were here chatting blithely with him. No time like the present to find the truth. "You know, Regulus, it is my understanding that Aline had an affair with a seventh year student. One must therefore wonder if those adorable children indeed belong to Severus."

Reg's jaw dropped, along with his indignant brows. "That's not a very nice thing to say! Even if it were true, and I don't believe it for a minute, why are you telling me? And what has this got to do with Jorab shoving his wand in my face?"

Hmm. No reaction. It was, of course, possible that Snape realized he was being goaded into defending his wife either verbally or physically, and refused to fall for it. Or it was possible that Riddle, being in control, couldn't care less one way or the other. Or…this was actually Regulus.

"There was an incident involving you at the Millennium Ball at my manor many years back. Tell me about it." Lucius took a step back, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed the lad with an expectant stare.

"I was kind of drunk, things are a bit hazy," started Reg. When Rabby jammed the wand into his cheek, he gulped and said, "I _may_ have _accidentally_ let it slip to your dad that Potter had brought his mudblood bitch with him. It wasn't my fault, he tricked me! And then he got all pissed off and yelled at you to get rid of them, and you whined something about it not looking good to the other governors—"

"I did not _whine_, I made an accurate statement," Lucius snarled.

"Whatever. Then you threatened to beat me up, so I offered to get rid of them for you—which I did, by the way, by starting a fight with Potter. You're welcome." Regulus eased away from Jorab and right into Dolph. "Why are you bringing this up?"

Dolph and Rab both looked to Lucius for confirmation, and the latter nodded. Rabby lowered his wand as Lucius said, "It's Regulus. But I'd still like to know why he doesn't seem concerned over Snape's escape." By now his accusing gaze had settled back on the youth, along with the questioning eyes of the other men, and he looked alarmingly suspicious. "Have you seen Severus today?"

Reg gulped again. He got the distinct impression that no one was going to be happy to hear the truth. With Dolph right behind him, he hadn't even the opportunity to flee. "Um…no."

Lucius threw his head back, grimacing—right before he bellowed, "Damn it, Regulus, you're a terrible liar! It's written all over your face! Where is he?"

"I don't know—" was all he got out before Lucius was upon him, snatching his biceps and shaking him like a rag doll. His head flopped back and forth.

"This is not a game! Where. Is. He?"

"I don't know! Stop it!" To his astonishment, Lucius did stop shaking him. "He came here and took my wand, then he left."

Reg hadn't thought Lucius could sound more livid or indignant, but obviously he was wrong. Malfoy shouted, "_You gave him your wand_?"

"No! He stole it. He's gonna give it back, I think…"

"And you didn't see fit to inform us that he'd been here?" exclaimed Rabby.

"He may be dangerous, Reg," Dolph added in his own calm, barely more than bored tone. "We have to contain him."

Regulus shook his head. "It's Severus, I'm pretty sure of it. He just wanted free, and I can't blame him. I don't think we have to worry about him."

Lucius forced down a gargantuan urge to slap the kid silly. When was Regulus going to stop running his life on emotion? "We have to be sure, Regulus. People could get hurt or killed if Severus isn't in full control. We need to find him."

"Honest, Lucius, I don't know where he went. He said he knew where he could spend a few days, then he left with that elf."

Lucius heaved a disgusted breath. "Alright, Dolph, Rabby, looks like we'd better get searching. Regulus, if he comes back, keep him here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lucius," Regulus replied glumly. He didn't like having everyone being angry at him…and he didn't like the idea of trying to detain a wizard with a huge attitude and _his_ wand.


	23. On the Edge of a Knife

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 23 (On the Edge of a Knife)

**Morning of August 31, 2000**

Severus woke up cold and stiff, and his rib ached from the small stone he'd apparently been lying on. Last night he'd been too tired to care about transfiguring something into a quasi-comfortable bed, and now he was paying for it. He pushed himself to a seated position and looked around in the early, grey morning light. It was empty, for lack of a better word. A bare stretch of land dotted with various outcroppings of rocks comprised the landscape. In the darkness, this place had felt more comforting, more secure; now it reeked of dismal gloom. The sounds of ocean surf pounding on the shore and the screech of seagulls were not far off.

He kicked at the blackened bits of sticks that were all that remained from the fire he'd lit the previous night…a night that seemed so very long ago, or like a dream. More like a nightmare. He took Regulus' wand from his pocket and restarted the fire, then crouched in close. Soon he'd have to fetch more wood, and he was hungry. Weren't those the kinds of things house elves concerned themselves with? Which begged the question: where was Winky?

Solemnly he bent forward, warming himself and reflecting on last night's events. His sons were so beautiful, so perfect. He missed them already, and he missed Aline with a gnawing passion. Aline couldn't chance believing he was free of Voldemort. Regulus may or may not believe him—he hadn't tried to stop him, at any rate, though to do so could have spelled death if Severus were indeed Tom Riddle. Snape grimaced. Was he really free? If so, why did he still feel such a burning desire to read those blasted diaries? He not only wanted the books, he needed them. _Dammit, dammit, dammit!_ Why couldn't he tear himself away?

He brought a trembling hand up to wipe a sheen of cold sweat from his brow. Then he got up to pace, keeping near the fire. If he didn't get to read at least a little every day, the withdrawal kicked in. Yet he dared not return to the castle, it wasn't safe—hell, if he knew Lucius, he was likely to gather the troops there to exchange information and to make plans to recapture Severus. Not to mention he'd rather live in a hole on the beach with the tide coming in than to ever step foot in that place again.

A sharp 'pop' sent Severus into defense mode, wand out, head swiveling to find the source. He let the wand drop when Winky toddled over to him carrying a plate of hot food: scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes. In her other hand she held a jug of pumpkin juice.

"Master Headmaster Snape must be hungry," she chirped, shoving the plate at him. "Must eats. I gets this at Hogwarts, but Master doesn't worry, nobody knows where Winky goes."

"Thank you, Winky." Severus took the offered plate and sat down next to the fire. Perhaps it was skipping supper that caused the food to taste incredibly good, and he embarrassed himself by how vigorously he shoveled it in with his fingers, silverware being absent. He mused it was a good thing he wasn't at Hogwarts; the students would talk about it behind his back for ages.

Master Headmaster polished off the food and gulped the juice like a starving coyote, though Winky was too polite to notice—or to admit to herself that she noticed. And if Master Headmaster was starving, whose fault was that? She'd been an inadequate elf, not feeding Master last night. "Winky makes another stop, Master," she said when he seemed about finished.

Severus froze in place, last bit of bacon in his hand, his senses on high alert. She'd gone elsewhere? Why would she do that? "Where did you go?"  
Winky chewed her skinny bottom lip while wringing her hands nervously. "Master doesn't say go, but Master moaning in his sleep. Begs for diaries, Master does, but Winky isn't knowing about diaries. I asks, and Master says at ugly old ruined castle. So I goes."

Severus paled further than his normal pallid colouring. "You went to the old castle? Did you find them? Did anyone see you?"

"I not sees anybody there," answered Winky. She pulled four small, brown, leather books from her voluminous blouse, so different from a typical house elf's tea towel or pillowcase, and Snape snatched them from her, his eyes hungry with need. "Winky looks at lots and lots of books. Is these them? Did Winky do good?"

"Yes, you did very well," Severus murmured, already tucking three of the diaries into the pockets of his robes, where their presence soothed him. The fourth he kept out; he needed to read a bit to clear his head before deciding what to do. Resting it on his knees, he flipped rapidly through the pages. A name caught his eye and he began to read, and as he read, the scene formed itself in his mind.

_June 20, 1944_

_ This was my last day at Hogwarts. Mulciber invited me to stay with his family until I've enough money to pay for a flat. I've acquired the position at Borgin and Burkes, so that shouldn't take too long._

_ I don't know as I'll miss Hogwarts, with all that sentimental nonsense entailed by 'missing'. Yet I saw Minerva on the train—_

Here Snape no longer felt like he was reading. His body relaxed, his gaze drifted into the memory held within the entry. All he saw now was the steamy platform and multitudes of people roaming about, parents calling for their children, wizards and witches disapparating.

_Tom stepped off the Hogwarts Express and took a deep breath. This was it; he was a man now, no longer to return to the orphanage, with no one to depend upon except himself. Yes, Mulciber offered lodging and food, but he'd prefer to make that stay as short as possible. He didn't like feeling dependent on another, beholden to another. He cast a spell on his trunk to lighten the weight, lifted it up, and whirled around right into Minerva._

_ His lips quirked into a secret smile that made his handsome face all the more mysteriously delectable. How different she was from that skinny black-haired chit he'd seen on the platform those five years ago! While still thin, her figure had become womanly, and she brimmed with self-confidence._

_ "Hi, Tom. I came to wish you a happy summer," she said, smiling. It seemed oddly out of place, considering the sadness he sensed emanating from her._

_ "Thank you, Minerva. I wish you the same."_

_ "You've graduated now." The melancholy deepened. "Are you sorry to be leaving school?"  
_

_He could swear she wished he'd say 'yes', that he regretted leaving __her__. In fact, a quick peek into her mind revealed exactly that…Tom didn't even gloat over how simple it was to read her, for a sudden sadness rested upon his own heart at what he'd seen. "You could say that. I had hoped to acquire the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, but Professor Dippet said I'm too young."_

_ A bitterness rankled within. Dumbledore had something to do with it, of that he was certain. Tom had met the old man leaving Dippet's office when he was headed in; Dippet liked Tom and was taken in by him. It wasn't a grand stretch to assume there had been whispers in the Headmaster's ear, for he found it impossible to believe he'd been refused the job solely based on his age. Dumbledore had to have convinced Dippet to refuse Tom, for whatever reason—perhaps his own inability to control himself around the young man. Tom grimaced in lieu of laughing._

_ "I'm sorry to hear that," Minerva answered. "You're so talented, you'd make a wonderful teacher."_

_Tom paused. Rarely did he hear praise from a peer who stood to gain nothing from it. The frank admiration pleased him in its simplicity and candor. "Perhaps it's for the best." He smirked at the quizzical expression on her face. "If I were your teacher, I couldn't do this." He leaned in and kissed her firmly on her lips, then backed up, took hold of his trunk, and smiled. "Goodbye, Minerva." He apparated away, with her flushed, enchanted visage etched in his mind._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

How long had it been since he'd seen the twins? Perhaps he should be more specific, Lucius smiled to himself. This set of twins, Severus' siblings, had moved to Wales to keep them out of the line of fire when Severus was entrenched in Voldemort's camp. The visits had been almost non-existent to keep thoughts of them out of Lucius' mind, and since the fall of the dark lord, not much had changed. He'd seen them a time or two, hardly enough to keep the lines of communication open.

Lucius approached Justina's house and knocked with his cane while chancing a peek in the lighted window. Soon a slim woman with black hair opened the door and smiled when she recognized him. Lucius smiled back, though it felt false.

"Lucius, how are you? Won't you come in?" beckoned Justina.

"Thank you, Tina," he said, following her inside to the parlor. "I apologize for not coming by more often, and I regret to say this is not a social call."

Tina paused in mid-stride and turned to him, visage registering worry. "Is something wrong? I should have known, it's been so long since you came, and now…" She dropped heavily onto the couch.

Malfoy eased down beside her, debating furiously within himself; he'd decided what to tell her, and now he was second guessing himself. The full truth was a lot to swallow, yet if he failed to be completely open now, she'd refuse to assist him. Those Snapes could be a cantankerous lot. And frankly, he wanted to remain on friendly terms.

He inclined his head in a nod. "I realize we ought to have informed you before this about what is going on, but secrecy was of the utmost importance. However, the situation has changed…"

Justina listened attentively and with some horror to the saga of her brother's transformation into Tom Riddle, the imprisonment to protect the population at large, and the long road back, culminating in his escape. She gaped at Lucius before murmuring, "And you think he came here?"

"He doesn't have a lot of options," Lucius said softly. "He knows we're looking for him."

"But—if he were still Voldemort, why wouldn't he go off far away? Why here?" she asked. The rise of a lone eyebrow, so like Severus, made Lucius smile again, until she demanded, "And how do I know any of this is true? You could be an imposter, or bent on some evil work."

Ah, there it was: the Snape paranoia. Better than being taken in by any story that came down the pike, Lucius supposed. He was glad she hadn't called Julius over so the two could attack his argument together; he really wasn't in the mood. "You'll just have to trust me, Tina. For the record, we don't know if Severus is dangerous. You have children to consider."

"I'll do that, Lucius. But until I can be certain of anything, I'll have to ask you to leave." She stood up and waited expectantly.

It wasn't as though he hadn't anticipated this. Lucius got up, bowed lightly to her, and walked ahead of her to the door. She'd been warned, that was the most he could do right now. He didn't believe Severus was here—Tina looked too shaken up by the tale. If Severus came round, he'd find a chilly reception.

As soon as he stepped out onto the porch, Lucius apparated away, all of two blocks over, where Dolph and Rab awaited him. To their unspoken question, he said, "Keep an eye on her house and Julius' house. Severus may yet show up."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Draco had been flying for hours. More accurately, he'd been riding on Emerald, following Charlie Weasley, who rode Nugget. Although this wasn't the first time he'd ridden the dragon, it definitely qualified as the longest trip. He only wished circumstances had been different.

Due to nasty muggle encroachment, snooping and meddling where they didn't belong, combined with internal politics, the camp had been shut down. Most of the workers had been reassigned to the other Ukrainian camp to the east, while Charlie and Draco had been transferred to a valley outside Samovilla, a remote village situated in the Rhodope Mountain range of Bulgaria. From the snippets of conversation Draco had heard over the past few days, he gleaned that it was a practically inaccessible region where tiny villages smattered the mountains, miles apart, and muggle traffic existed at a minimum. Were it not for magic, many wizards may have perished trying to traverse the dangerous cliff-side roads.

Flying high enough to avoid detection by muggles below, Draco found the trip both exhilarating and cold. He clung to Emerald for warmth, hugging him round the neck and relaxing against him. On his broom, he could fly much lower, but then dragons tended to take up a lot more space, and to cause a giant stir if noticed. For most of the trip, he'd been too far above the ground to see much beyond clouds and occasional views of landscape that looked like a patchwork quilt. As they neared their destination and lowered altitude, he was awed by spectacular stone monasteries perched on mountain tops, abandoned strongholds of old—both intact and demolished, yet still glorious in their inherent beauty, and gorgeous greenery of heavily forested areas.

They'd flown south all the way across Romania, with a bare hint of a turn to the east, to end up just north of Greece in the far southeastern Rhodope Mountains. As they entered a secluded valley, Charlie pulled back on his harness to slow the animal and circled the camp, which consisted of wooden buildings rather than tents, proving it to be a more permanent establishment than the previous one. Following his lead, Draco guided Emerald to touch down lightly outside a gigantic pen that made the old ones look like dog crates.

He half-crawled, half-fell off the dragon to land on tired, shaky legs, then hugged Emerald's neck as he pressed their faces together. He sent a silent note of thanks, which Emerald acknowledged with a whinny in the back of his throat. The image he sent back held a wistfulness that Draco could only interpret as the creature's happiness at the freedom of flight, cut short by captivity. It gave him his own pangs of guilty sadness.

"Come on, Draco. They're expecting us for a reception dinner," said Charlie as he took the harness off of Nugget and let her go into the pen. He guided Emerald in as well, then motioned toward a very tall, burly man coming their way. "They evidently saw us land."

The large fellow approached and squeezed Charlie's hand in his immense paw, smiling genially under a thick, dark mustache. In an accented yet pleasant, deep boom of a voice he said, "Charlie, ees good to see you again! Thees ees Draco, no? Hello, Draco. Did you haf a good flight?"

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Balakov," answered Draco, bowing ever so slightly as he offered his hand and promptly winced under the power of the man's shake. Pulling his hand away and cupping it against his body, he added, "The trip was delightful."

"Call me Borimetchka," boomed the man. "Come, ees time for supper. We talk in there, get to know each other. We haf Mavroud wine—very good." A hearty slap on the back propelled the young man forward.

"Mavroud is aged in oak casks—strong, but dark and sweet, with a bit of blackberry flavour," Charlie whispered, looking eager for a taste.

"I know," Draco muttered back. He may not be a frequent drinker, but he'd been raised to know and appreciate wines from all over the world. "Do you think maybe we could find a loo? That was a long flight."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It had taken a full day for Severus to work up the stomach for what he'd come to do. It was, by far, one of the most difficult undertakings of his life, but desperate times called for desperate measures. While not one to search for silver linings on the perennially dark clouds following him around, one glaringly obvious 'plus' stared out at him: Black wouldn't be there. He'd undoubtedly gone to Hogwarts to prepare for the classes he was stealing—er, going to teach in Severus' absence. If not for that blessed mercy, Snape would rather have hidden in a muggle sewer than show his face, although it really wasn't that much of a consolation.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he knocked firmly at the door, with Winky plastered to his leg. No one—_no one_—would actually expect him to show up here, so if he could convince that stupid, half-insane elf and his master to keep their traps shut, he'd be alright.

To his surprise, Harry was the one who opened the door, and visibly recoiled before catching himself. "P-Professor Snape. This is unexpected."

"Precisely," said Snape, refraining with difficulty from sneering. "Are you going to invite me in?" _Socially clueless twat_.

"Sure." Harry stepped aside and closed the door after Snape came limping in literally dragging the elf on his leg. "I was about to have a snack. You want something to eat?"

Severus stopped in place, remembering that he was hungry. "That would be nice. Is Kreacher here?"

"No, he's been with Reg a lot lately. He makes stuff for me to eat and goes off again." Looking more perplexed than Severus was used to, judging from the years of vacant stares in Potions class, Harry ventured, "Did you come here for a reason? I don't mean to be rude, but we're not exactly mates."

Severus' voice lodged in his throat in silent protest; he had to physically force the words out, and couldn't bear to look at Harry while doing so. It kind of hurt in the pit of his chest. He stared at the wall beyond him as he stated, "In point of fact, I've come to ask you for a—" Pause, with subdued gagging or choking sounds. "—a favour."

"A favour?" repeated Harry, brightening. This was great! He'd get to help out the bloke who'd done so much for him—and Snape was actually asking! "What can I do for you?"

"Sanctuary."

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**September 1, 2000**

"Sirius Black, I hope this is your idea of a joke." Minerva stood stiffly upright, clutching her emerald robes about her thin frame, and adjusted her glasses to scowl down her nose at Black.

Sirius ducked his head like an abashed child, as he'd done so often when his Head of House scolded him. He wasn't sure what he could possibly have done, since he'd only arrived ten minutes ago. "Ma'am?"

Minerva gestured at his tattered muggle blue jeans, and t-shirt sporting what some might deem a quasi-pornographic print. "Your attire, Mr. Black. While our dress code for teachers is minimal, it _does_ exist. You are required to wear appropriate robes while on school grounds, as well as while escorting students elsewhere. _This_ is not appropriate."

He glanced down at his shirt. A light blush crept into his cheeks. "Oh! Sorry! I thought we only had to dress like professors for class…which doesn't start till tomorrow…I'll go change."

"You do that. The train arrives shortly, and I will not tolerate any scandal." She watched him bolt for the door, then sighed heavily. How she wished Severus were back! He may not be the most affable fellow on campus, but he strictly observed the rules of behaviour.

When Sirius showed up at the High Table in the Great Hall, freshly shaven and showered, he wore a smart set of navy blue robes that 'brought out his eyes and made him extra delicious', according to Daphne. She'd picked them out for him especially for his post at Hogwarts, and they appeared to have the desired effect: no one verbally lambasted him or looked askance at him. Everybody was very friendly, as a matter of fact. Something Daphne may have failed to consider was the reaction of some older girls at the students' tables, who were casting Sirius appreciative glances and giggling to each other about the handsome new teacher.

Minerva was conspicuously absent. Years of habit had ingrained in her the tradition of gathering the first years and leading them to the Hall for the Sorting Ceremony. For the past two years, under Snape's rule as Headmaster, the Sorting had been done randomly by Severus himself, effectively thwarting the customary system. Well, Snape wasn't here now, and Minerva liked the way things had always been, even against the argument that it placed too many similar personalities together and encouraged competitive animosity between Houses.

The double doors to the Hall burst open and Minerva strode in, leading a line of children behind her. The idle chatter among the older students came to a halt. The group marched up the aisle and stopped where a stool had been placed in front of the staff table; on it sat the Sorting Hat. Minerva instructed the children to fan out so that all the students could see, then everyone turned their attention to the tattered hat. Nervous, excited expectation hung in the air. The hat waited a good long time before opening its brim to sing a dirge-like tune.

_My time had passed, my time had passed, or so I did believe;_

_my job of sorting students was a task I used to weave._

_The Houses here at Hogwarts are, I'm certain you'll agree,_

_equipping children, one and all, to form a family._

_Yet please allow a warning word before we do proceed:_

_Do not permit your differences to spawn an enemy._

_The Gryffindors, they think they're brave, the Ravenclaws are smart,_

_the Slytherins a crafty sort, the Hufflepuffs have heart._

_But deep inside, what really counts is not the House we choose;_

_you must accept each other's flaws or else we all will lose._

When the Hat finished, it closed its brim and sat quietly. At length, deciding this must be the entire song, the crowd erupted into applause tempered with confusion. Wasn't it supposed to be uplifting and positive? Minerva left the firsties huddled round the stool where the Sorting Hat sat looking glum, if it were possible for a hat to look glum. She picked up a scroll from the staff table and began to read names, placing the hat on each child in turn.

Seated at the High Table with the rest of the instructors, Bayly clapped along as each student was escorted to the proper table, yet his brow furrowed in a slight frown. Only two years ago _he_ had been one of the students standing down there, albeit a seventh year, and Professor Snape had randomly assigned them all to Houses. It seemed more fair that way, especially with the prejudice against Slytherin House strong enough for even an outsider to feel. If things continued according to Snape's model, eventually that bias would wear off. When Professor Snape got wind of tonight's events, he was—to be generous—not going to be happy. 'Shit a brick' came to mind.

Bayly's ears perked up at the name Therese Hawbecker, who was sorted into Hufflepuff. Why did that name ring a bell? Oh, yes—Mr. Malfoy had talked about a little girl named Sunny Hawbecker. This must be her sister.

Bayly was brought back to focus by a nudge from Andromeda. He blinked and looked around; Minerva had come to sit on the large golden chair of the Headmaster…if she'd delivered any words of wisdom to the students, he'd missed it. The food had appeared and everyone had begun the feast.

"You seem leagues away," Andy observed as she offered him a bowl of chunked fruit.

"Just thinking…remembering," he answered quietly. After the feast he needed to address Slytherin House in Aline's place, and then get home to Gloria.

He wondered for the thousandth time if Professor Snape was indeed himself as Aline thought, and when he'd be coming back—in short, when things would return to normal. A niggling of fear told him that if Snape was NOT himself, all hell was going to break loose very soon. With Snape on the run, there was no way to ascertain who was in control, and the uncertainty wore on his nerves. He only hoped that when the truth came out, it wasn't in the form of a massacre or macabre warning….


	24. Emancipation

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 24 (Emancipation)

**September 1, 2000**

_ "Ha nazdrave!" shouted Borimetchka, lifting his glass of thick red Mavroud wine. Gleaning the meaning of this from the way the assembly picked up their drinks, Draco obediently lifted his own in the toast._

_ "Do dano!" (__Bottoms up__!) added an unidentified man across the room._

_ In unison everyone tilted their heads back and gulped the wine—everyone but Draco, who sipped at his and watched in consternation as the rest slammed empty cups onto the table. At the discomfiting sensation of a dozen or more pairs of eyes beholding him expectantly, Draco tossed back his wine in two hearty swallows that nearly choked him going down. Laughing, Borimetchka walloped him genially on the back again. Draco hoped the huge man didn't make a habit of it, lest his spine refuse to return to proper alignment._

_ Shortly, the warmth of the alcohol began to soak into him, and Draco found himself relaxing; the food tasted even better now, and he knew good food. Lamb, potato pie, salted heavy cream so thick it seemed more like butter, pickled vegetables, boiled white beans larger than any he could remember ever seeing, and bread—enormous rounds of bread no less than four pounds apiece that the crowd tore chunks from to enjoy with this special feast._

Draco moaned softly and smacked his lips. Good stuff. At length his eyes fluttered open; he stared about the dim room, momentarily befuddled about his surroundings. Wooden walls, slanted such that the roof of beams was covered with a layer of thin, flat, wide stones…he hadn't noticed that yesterday. A second bed, which he assumed must be for Charlie, sat empty along the opposite wall. Feeling like the moisture of his mouth had been sucked out and replaced with cotton, he sat up on his cot, holding his head. He'd imbibed too freely last night, with the express encouragement of his boss and Weasley, and now he got to experience the aftermath.

He managed to drag himself out of bed, still fully dressed, and hobbled out into the glaring daylight to hunt for a latrine. When he emerged from the loo, he stopped short, gawping. Not three meters away, talking in Bulgarian to one of the crew, was Oksana! Even in her tomboyish pants, blond hair pulled into a ponytail, and a smudge of ash on one cheek, she looked very pretty. Without knowing why, it irritated him. What the hell was she doing here? And looking good to boot? Automatically he scanned the area for signs of Oleksandr.

"Draco!" Oksana whirled to face him. She flashed a smile as she approached. "I hear you came last night. I was not here."

"No, you weren't," confirmed the young man, instinctively backing away. "Why are you here? I thought you went to the other Ukrainian camp."

"I did," she answered with a shrug. "I transfer here a week ago."

"Do you even speak Bulgarian?" he asked, mentally kicking himself. What a stupid question! Had he not just seen her conversing in Bulgarian? And what if she didn't? _He_ didn't!

Oksana smiled, evidently amused by something Draco failed to see. "I attended Durmstrang—and my grandmother is Bulgarian. I get lot of practice. I speak Russian as well."

"Multi-talented," Draco muttered, suddenly flushing at the possible implications and double meanings there. He definitely did not want to give her a wrong impression. "So, do you know Viktor Krum?"

"Everybody knows Viktor Krum," she said, shaking her head. "But he was few years older, and not my friend, if that is what you mean."

"A friend of mine, Bayly Young, went to Durmstrang, too." Good Lord, could his conversation be less interesting if he tried?

Oksana's smile faltered into a slight frown. "Bayly…yes, I remember the name. Younger than me. Why you keep bring up other men?"

"Because I happen to know you have one," said Draco, starting to edge in the direction of where he thought the meal hall was located. "I'd prefer not to get pounded again."

Oksana brushed a hand in the air as if dismissing the thought. "Sashko is at Ukrainian camp. I quit him. He is too—how you say—clinging."

Draco didn't know if this was good news or not. She was free—free to mount a full offensive at him. Would it be so bad if she did? She was quite attractive, intelligent…he could do worse. At the same time, she was fickle and ran through men more often than some people changed clothes. And the tug in his heart at the thought of holding anyone but Astoria ruined it for him. True, Astoria had not contacted him at all since he'd been gone, but neither had he written to her, so perhaps she was waiting for him to make the first move.

"Draco?"

"Sorry." He blinked back to focus. "I need to find Weasley or Mr. Balakov to ask what I'm allowed to do."

"Borimetchka is flying, I saw him leave," Oksana said, her blue eyes flitting up to the sky. "Did he tell you what his nickname means?" Draco shook his head while Oksana tittered with glee. "Man who fought with bear!"

Pregnant pause. This was a joke, right? "He didn't really…did he?"

"The claw scars on his arm and neck are real," Oksana replied solemnly, looking quite impressed. She reached out to pull Draco along by the arm. "Come. First you eat, then we see Charlie…"

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**September 2, 2000**

First day of class. As a student, Sirius had generally enjoyed the first day: very little work, usually no homework, lots of goofing off. He was good at that. As a teacher…he wasn't so sure he liked the idea of the kids ignoring him or, worse yet, mocking him behind his back as he'd done in his day. Payback could be a bitch, indeed. And to top it off, he'd put his auror training on hold to be here, so if he flopped, it would not only be embarrassing, it would all be for nothing.

He took a deep, steadying breath in and held it, then released it slowly. He would do fine, of course he would. All he needed to do was get their attention, be firm—no, be friendly—no, strict—hell, he didn't have a clue what he should do! Make the students like him—yes, that would work. He used to listen to professors he liked…or feared. He shuddered, recalling McGonagall's stern countenance; she may have been his Head of House, she may have been fond of him, and even been lenient at times, but she could crack the whip when it suited her purpose.

Sirius flung open the door to his first class of the day—ironically, a class of firsties. He sauntered in, wand out, right to the front of the room. On the desk was a list of names for roll call; he glanced down at it, then spun to face the children, who looked a mixture of curious and anxious.

"Hello. My name is Sirius Black, and I'll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. You may as well put away those books your parents paid so dearly for, as you won't be needing them."

The children made haste to swipe the books off their tables and onto the floor underneath, or into book bags. They fixed their innocent eyes on him, waiting.

"The first thing a witch or wizard needs to learn is how to protect herself or himself. In my opinion, the best defense is a good offense, which means you'll need to learn hexes and jinxes. How many of you have learned some at home?"

Several hands went up. Good, he wasn't starting at zero for all of them.

"No time like the present to begin," he said, smiling.

An hour and an irate visit from Poppy later, Sirius dismissed the students. He grimaced and bit his lip at the galleon-sized blister on the cheek of one boy. Was it _his_ fault the kid didn't duck? He could see the spell coming a mile away! "Sorry about that, yeah? Next time, remember it's alright to move out of the way." The boy pouted out the door.

Well, that had gone…it had gone. That was honestly the best Sirius could say. No one had suffered grave injury, though numerous minor wounds had necessitated either sending half the class out, or bringing the mediwitch in. He'd opted for the latter.

He subsequently spent his free hour being lectured by Madam Pomfrey on the dangers of being too rough on the students, and he nodded his head and agreed right along with her. When at last she was out of breath and hoarse, she stormed back to the hospital, leaving Sirius to sigh to himself. Evil wizards and their minions weren't going to be easy on their victims, were they? Voldemort had proven that. Better prepared, even if it entailed a spot of pain.

His next class consisted of seventh years, which heartened him. Surely they'd know enough not to get themselves hurt. He decided to start the class with a bang, so as soon as they all had gathered in the room, he entered, introduced himself, then took out his wand and _stupefied_ Dennis Creevey, who flew backward off his stool, struck the table behind him, and crumpled to the floor. The rest of the class gaped in horror.

Sirius went to the boy and uttered, "_Ennervate_," which roused him. The man helped him up and back onto his stool, then addressed the class in a cross tone. "What was wrong here?"

"You shot Dennis!" exclaimed Orla Quirke, Ravenclaw.

"Professors aren't supposed to hex students!" added Kevin Whitby, Hufflepuff.

A Slytherin named Graham Pritchard murmured, "He didn't have a chance to fight back. His wand wasn't even out."

"_Exactly_," said Sirius as he tromped to the front of the room, looking stern. "His wand wasn't out. Why not? You're in _Defense Against the Dark Arts_, people. How are you planning to defend? After I attacked him, why did not _one_ of you draw a wand in the event I turned on you next?"

Shamefaced, the students glanced sidelong at one another, but said nothing. Notably, they all drew their wands.

Sirius went on, "I don't know what Sn—Professor Snape has been teaching you these last couple of years, but if you can't deflect a spell cast at you, you're going to end up like this boy here—or worse. Line up over here, wands up! When I shoot a hex at you, you counter with your own spell to block or deflect it. I'll demonstrate by allowing each of you to fire at me, starting with—what's you name again, son?"

"Dennis, sir."

"Starting with Dennis. Go ahead, I'm ready."

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**Evening of September 2, 2000**

"Severus—can I call you Severus?" asked Harry.

"No, Potter, you may not," growled Snape, barely glancing up from his diary to cast a withering glare. Momentarily he dropped his head to continue reading.

"Well then, Professor Snape. You've been here for two days now, and you've barely spoken two words. You spend all day in your room or here reading these books." Harry pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, where Severus had set up camp. He sat down, arms crossed, and merely looked at the Potions master. "Well?"

Severus paused once more, not even bothering to look up, though his jaw clenched a bit. As much as Potter's scintillating conversational skills held exquisite appeal for him, he was hardly tempted to seek him out to engage in hearty discussions of Quidditch or, even more enthralling, brooms. "Well _what_?"

"Aren't you going to tell me what's going on?"

Snape exhaled heavily before returning dryly, "I believe I put that on my to-don't list."

"Isn't that supposed to be a _to-do_ list?" asked Harry, grinning. His smile faded at the blank stare now aimed fully his way. Amazing how Snape could look inscrutable and dangerous at the same time. "Never mind. It's just that you made me and Kreacher promise not to tell anyone you're here, but you won't say why. Are you in trouble? Did your wife kick you out?" _Not that I'd be surprised._

This time Severus combined an eyeroll with his martyr-like sigh. "The whole point of not informing you is so that you won't know."

"That's barmy," said Harry. A creeping annoyance showed in his face. "After everything we went through all those years, you're gonna pull a Dumbledore on me? You did spend loads of time with him; I guess it's only natural he'd rub off on you—"

"_Don't_ try to manipulate me with guilt," Severus hissed, snapping the diary shut. He rose from his chair and scooped the book into his robes. "When the situation is resolved, I will give an account of my actions. I owe you that much for your hospitality. Right now, the less you know, the better for all of us."

He'd begun to brush past Harry when the young man piped up, "I heard Kreacher call you 'Severmort' this morning." Severus halted in his tracks, face ashen yet impassive. "He refuses to tell me what it means, and the only reason for that could be that Regulus ordered him to keep mum. He doesn't listen to Sirius, so…" He continued to prattle on, unaware that Snape no longer heard him. His mind whirled feverishly, conjecturing worst-case scenarios of the dratted little elf and his secrets. "…so I thought I should make a visit to Reg."

Severus spun around so fast Harry cringed. "You spoke with Regulus?"

"Not yet, but if you won't tell me, maybe he will." Harry got up so he didn't feel so small compared to the older wizard.

"He won't disclose anything," said Severus in a menacing voice barely above a whisper. At this distance, the tip of his nose nearly brushed Harry's, and his breath felt hot on Harry's face. "He's been sworn to silence as well. Although you've failed monumentally in trusting me in the past, I need you to trust me now, Mr. Potter. Can you do that?"

Harry hesitated. Why did it always come down to this? Why couldn't anyone ever be straight with him? He'd spent a good deal of time running the past events through his mind, and in retrospect he acknowledged the many times Snape had put his neck on the line while Harry was busy crowing about alleged suspicious or criminal undertakings of the man. Perhaps this time he ought to step up and take that leap of faith—after all, Snape had proven over and over that he was steadfast and dedicated. What did he have to lose?

"Alright, I trust you," said Harry quietly. "But I'll hold you to your word. When this…whatever it is…is over, you have to tell me what's going on."

"Agreed—on one condition. I prefer you keep the information to yourself," said Severus, shuddering inwardly at the thought of Black finding out his nemesis had been taken over by the dark lord. He'd never hear the end of it!

"Agreed," said Harry, nodding and smiling. He backed up, pleased with himself.

"And make your elf behave," added Snape. He jerked a thumb toward the hallway.

Curious, Harry peeked into the hall, but saw no one. He did, however, hear scuffling going on in the living room, so he followed the sound. When he poked his head in, he couldn't decide whether to laugh or shout. There, on the floor, Winky and Kreacher were engaged in an oddly comical battle wherein Winky sat astride Kreacher, and it looked for all the world to Harry that she was trying to smother him with a pillow shoved down on his face while he kicked and flailed his skinny limbs and thrashed his head from side to side.

"Master Snape is _my_ master!" shrilled Winky, putting all of her scant weight into her endeavor.

"It's _my_ house!" Kreacher bellowed back. He managed to buck her off and roll over to spring to his feet. "He is Master Harry Potter's guest, so _I_ gets to serve him!"

"No! No, no, no—mine!" Winky hurled the pillow at him; it struck his vast, bald forehead and bounced off.

"You're just a Hogwarts elf," taunted Kreacher nastily. "You don't have a family. Your old family gave you _clothes_!"

Winky burst into tears and attacked, fists flying like balls on the ends of sticks, attached to a windmill. One blow clipped Kreacher on his prominent nose, and he drew back, squalling. Before either of them decided to resort to magic, Harry intervened.

"Stop it right now, both of you!"

The elves froze in place, moving only their bug-like eyes his way.

"You can both serve Professor Snape. Winky, you'll take care of his room and personal needs, Kreacher will do the cooking. Is that fair?"

Both sulking, the elves stepped apart and crossed their twiggy arms over concave chests. Neither seemed happy with the compromise. On the bright side, they'd stopped trying to kill each other.

Kreacher said at last, "Whatever Master Harry Potter says." He shot Winky an unusually hideous face, and she reciprocated by sticking out her tongue at him. He straightened up, then headed for the kitchen as he threw over one shoulder, "_Kreacher_ has to make dinner."

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**September 5, 2000**

Regulus might have expected Lucius to break into Spinner's End (or floo in, but honestly Reg believed the former more likely) and wait to ambush him when he got home. What he didn't anticipate was turning around in the joke shop to come face to face with the blond rapidly-becoming-a-pain-in-the-arse wizard.

"Regulus, how nice to see you," drawled the man.

"As if you didn't know I work here," retorted Reg, lowering his voice to avoid detection by those nearby. "What is it this time? I still don't know where _he_ is."

Lucius cocked his head ever so slightly and his eyelids drooped a touch. "Really, Regulus, such manners. Did it ever occur to you that I might be here to purchase something?"

Staring in a deadpan fashion, Reg said simply, "No."

The older man plucked a box off the shelf to his right and thrust it at Regulus. "I want this."

Reg looked down at it and started to snicker. "I'm sure Narcissa will love the idea of you in a romance daydream with another witch."

Looking scandalized, Lucius snatched the box out of his hand and pitched it back onto the shelf. "Fine. I'm not here for that. I'll be blunt: has Snape made any contact with you at all?" His grey eyes pierced Reg's brown. "Don't even try to lie; I'll know."

"I _told_ you," Regulus snarled through gritted teeth, "I haven't seen him or talked to him, I don't know where he is, and I think it doesn't matter! Has any great catastrophe or mass murder happened? No. So he's most likely alright, just as I said days ago." He shook his head in disgust. "I swear, between you hounding me and Kreacher acting weirder than usual, I'm going plum mad!"

"Forgive the intrusion, your majesty," Lucius crooned sarcastically. "I thought you may want to assist Aline. She's out of her mind with worry, which isn't helping the children any." He spun round to flounce down the aisle, his traveling cloak flapping softly about him. The door slammed extra hard on his way out, aided no doubt by his wand. Malfoy did like his drama, and he loved to drive home a point.

Regulus bolted for the door; he caught Lucius before he'd gone two stores down. "I wanna help," he blurted.

"You already have," said Lucius cryptically. "I think I know where our friend may be hiding, but getting to him will be a problem. Are you willing to do as I say?"

"Yes, so long as you don't hurt him."

"He's my friend, too, Regulus," Lucius snapped with an air of injured dignity. "We all want the same thing. I'll contact you later, after I've formulated a plan." With that, he turned to resume his path out of Diagon Alley.

When Reg returned to the shop, George Weasley met him at the door, his countenance curious and puzzled. "Was that _Lucius Malfoy_?"

Reg nodded, evading his boss' eye. "Um, yeah. We didn't have anything he was looking for."

"Not surprising. We don't stock Dark Magic objects," George said. He missed the indignant scowl forming on Reg's face as he pondered what Malfoy had come for. The quip about Dark objects had been merely reflex, an involuntary wisecrack, for certainly Malfoy knew where to find items of that sort if he were interested. But he didn't seem the type of bloke to enjoy a good laugh or joke, so why come here? Judging from the looks on Reg's upset face, he'd come on a personal matter that hadn't been pleasant. It was none of George's business, and Reg was entitled to his privacy. "Uh-oh. Looks like a trio of miscreants in the muggle section. Later, Reg." He took off at a trot, waving his wand threateningly.

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**September 6, 2000**

It was only a hunch, but up to now they'd been operating on less than that, and frankly Lucius' nerves were close to shot, along with the rest of his companions. One week ago Severus had escaped; every day since then, Lucius and his cohorts had spent all their free time patrolling and hunting for a virtual phantom. If they didn't find him soon, they'd be forced to notify the authorities, which no one wanted. Aline had even insisted on joining the search, against Lucius' wishes and advice, and now he feared if she were the one to find Severus, he might harm her. Despite the fact that she was an excellent dueler, she failed to consider how emotionally difficult it would be to hurt a loved one, even of necessity.

So Kreacher was acting strangely. Kreacher always acted strangely, he was an elf, after all. Perhaps more accurately, he was acting out of character. Lucius had found over the years that it made sense to explore even the remotest possibility where elves, goblins, and other forms of freakish creatures were concerned. As the floo at Grimmauld Place had not functioned for years, and all entrances, including windows, were almost certainly booby-trapped to thwart intruders, that left one way in: the front door. While extremely implausible that Snape would come to this place, for a plethora of reasons, something had caused Kreacher's behaviour to change. If it was not something at Spinner's End—and it apparently was not—it had to be here.

The trio had watched Harry leave for his auror training only moments ago; it was time. Still under cover of shadow, Lucius and Marshal cast strong disillusion charms on themselves before slinking across the street to their destination, with Reg the only truly visible person among them.

"You're certain Kreacher will be gone for hours?" Lucius whispered.

"Yes," confirmed Reg. "I sent him on an errand to find my missing shoes…which I threw in the muggle trash last week, so he'll be at it for a long time."

And so they stood on the doorstep to Grimmauld Place, Regulus as point man, Lucius as strongman, Marshal as enforcer/backup. Marshal had been particularly giddy at the notion that he'd been right all along in his silly statement about Snape coming to Potter's house, such that it became insufferable until Lucius threatened to hex his testicles off if he mentioned it one more time.

Regulus knocked and waited. A voice through the door came, "Did Master Harry forgets—" As the door opened, Winky's enormous eyes widened so far they looked set to pop out of their sockets. "Master Regulus. Uh…oh—Master Harry is not being here."

"Can I come in?" asked Regulus, casually walking in past the horrified elf. It was his family home, after all; even though Sirius had given it to Potter, Reg had been granted full access by the same. He purposely leaned on the door to hold it open, to allow the others to steal inside undetected. "Winky, go get Snape for me. I need to talk to him."

"Master Harry is not being here," repeated the elf stupidly. She'd become visibly agitated, wringing her hands nervously.

A jet of blue light from the side struck Winky in the head, rendering her unconscious. She slumped to the floor in a heap.

_What did you do that for?_ Reg was tempted to hiss, but he'd been warned by Lucius about talking to them inside the house, lest Snape see it. Instead, he merely aimed a glare to where the hex had come from. It had to have been Marshal, and he'd probably done it to get Winky out of the way, keep her from protecting Snape. Elf magic was powerful, it was the prudent thing to do, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Lucius and Marshal faded into the woodwork as they took up strategic positions out of the line of sight, although with their disillusion charms, they were scarcely visible even to a searching eye. Reg shut the door softly with his foot then magically bound the elf with his new—and nowhere near favourite—wand and deposited her in the coat closet in the foyer. Snape had surely heard the knock on the door, so he'd be on alert; if he'd heard the slight commotion—and not much got past those bat-like ears—he'd probably positioned himself for attack by now.

"Sev, it's Regulus!" he called out. "I know you're here. I need to talk to you." Predictably, there was no response, so he took a few steps closer to the staircase and belted out, "Snape, get out here! Lucius is breathing down my neck ever since you came to see me!"

"And this affects me _how_?"

Regulus did a full circle, looking for the origin of the voice. "Where are you?"

The voice seemed to be circling him. "A better question would be 'Where is Winky', don't you think?"

"Stop playing games. I'm sick of this whole thing," said Regulus.

"_Where is Winky?_" roared Severus. Reg could swear it came from directly in front of him this time, yet when he swiped a hand in the air, there was no one there.

"In the closet," admitted Reg, ducking his head. "She wouldn't go get you, and I was afraid she'd hurt me."

Now the voice had moved to his left, far from the closet. It was zigzagging haphazardly as Snape spoke, obviously to prevent Regulus from blasting him with the wand he held in his hand. "They're still looking for me." It was not a question.

"Well, yeah. Stop dancing around, you're making me nauseous," complained Reg. All at once he understood and exclaimed, "You're using Potter's invisibility cloak, aren't you?"

Suddenly the doorknob creaked and the door was flung open; before anyone could breathe, two flashes of light, one red, one gold, sailed at the opening. The sound of something falling struck their ears, though the only visible item was a booted foot that appeared to be lying severed on the rug.

Lucius and Marshal leaped forward to drag Severus fully into the house…that is, Marshal did the actual grunt work while Lucius picked up the delicate, web-like piece of cloth that Snape had been hiding under, and regarded it with silent wonder. He ran his fingers over the fine, sheer fabric. He'd heard of this cloak, yet to see it at work, to touch it…it was a masterpiece of unparalleled worth. He pondered idly how much he'd have to offer to persuade Potter to sell it to him.

Forcing himself back to reality, he handed the cloak to Regulus and turned to examine Severus. He'd hit his friend with a _stupefy_; he wasn't sure what Marshal had used, but the combination had been extremely effective.

Noting Regulus rummaging through Snape's pockets, Marshal chortled, "You're gonna rob him? That's ballsy, kid."

Reg glowered at him. "He's got my wand. My _good_ wand."

"It fell by the door," Lucius said absently, contemplating his options. They couldn't keep Severus here, but taking him back to the castle wasn't viable, either. Winky knew to look there. "Help me drag him out the door. We're going to a new location."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Severus woke up in one of the dungeon chambers at Malfoy Manor. Aside from bruised pride at being captured once again, his head felt like it was splitting down the middle. He shouted for Winky, to no avail. In addition to anti-apparition wards, Lucius had spelled a silencing charm over the area to prevent him calling for help.

"Ah, you're awake." Lucius strolled down the stone steps looking pleased as one of his prized peacocks. "You're not an easy man to apprehend, my friend."

Severus glared daggers at him. Over the years they'd had arguments, even a fistfight or two as very young men. At the moment, Snape would like nothing better than to curl that long platinum hair around his fist and yank it right out of Malfoy's head, then feed it to him. He thought better of voicing his fantasy, lest it implicate him as less than stable. "How long are you going to keep me prisoner, Lucius? I pose no threat to society." _I cannot make the same assertion toward you, however._

"You don't know how much I want to believe that," said Lucius.

If he hadn't been literally stuck to his chair with a sticking charm, Severus would have lunged at him. "Why didn't I hurt the babies when I had the chance? Bloody hell, I've been living in the same house with Harry Potter for days and he's still alive! Shouldn't that prove something?" He threw up his hands in exasperation. "Damn it, Lucius, we're practically brothers! You know me!"

_We're practically brothers._ Lucius' jaw dropped for a second before he regained control. He knew what to do, he knew how to prove the truth! "Wait here. I'll be right back." He dashed up the stairs.

"Where am I going to go?" Severus sniped at his retreating back. "Tosser."

Less than a minute later, Lucius came running down the stairs holding a parchment and a self-inking quill. He thrust them into Snape's hands. "Write me a sentence that says you are Severus Snape, and that Tom Riddle no longer controls you."

"Are you insane, Malfoy? What is that going to prove?"

"Just do it," ordered Lucius, struggling to contain his excitement. "Quarrelsome prat."

Severus rolled his eyes, but he grudgingly complied and handed it back to Lucius, who scanned the spidery writing, then bolted up the stairs once more. Marshal came sauntering down to lounge against the wall, arms crossed, smirking at Snape.

Severus paused in his recitation of every swear word he knew. "Any idea what he's up to, Marshal? Is this just another fun way for him to pass the time?"

"Not a clue," said Marshal. "I think Malfoy's starting to crack, if you know what I mean." He laughed out loud. "Of course you do—look where you are!"

"Keep it up, Marshal. One day I'll be free, with a wand."

"Oh, I'm trembling," answered Marshal, yawning.

Rather than engage in banal conversation or an inflammatory row, Severus clamped his mouth shut and sat quietly in the chair, seething inside. He was hard pressed to determine who he wanted to mutilate first when he finally got the chance. Lovely little scenarios of torturing each of those involved in his captivity danced through his brain; the knowledge that he would never do it even given the opportunity dampened his enthusiasm. He tapped his foot impatiently.

After an eternity of waiting—roughly ten minutes—Lucius returned, storming down the steps in leaps and bounds, wand in hand. He let loose a spell to release Severus from the chair, then threw his arms around the dumbfounded Potions master.

"You're free, Severus. It's over."


	25. Soul Mates

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 25 (Soul Mates)

**September 6, 2000**

After an eternity of waiting—roughly ten minutes—Lucius returned, storming down the steps in leaps and bounds, wand in hand. He let loose a spell to release Severus from the chair, then threw his arms around the dumbfounded Potions master.

"You're free, Severus. It's over."

Severus stood in shock for several seconds, wrapped in Malfoy's jubilant grip, then he shoved Lucius away. "Get off me! I want to know what the hell is going on, and I want to know now. No more games."

"This is no game, Severus." Despite a twinge of indignation at being so unceremoniously thrust away, Lucius couldn't contain his gleeful excitement. "Remember the little girl my father saved by using the _Conviare_? I told you how she can determine if I'm lying…"

_A thirty-something witch opened the door to her home; she regarded the eager, hopeful face greeting her outside with caution. "Mr. Malfoy, this is unexpected. I thought we agreed you'd owl before visiting."_

_ "Yes, and I apologize. This is an emergency." Lucius noted the skeptical lift of her eyebrows, as he discerned the barely covert hostility behind her bland façade. "Mrs. Hawbecker, I realize this may sound contrived and that you neither believe nor trust me; I have three children of my own to protect, and in your shoes, I probably wouldn't believe me, either. However, the letter I wrote for you to show your daughter should have proven beyond doubt that I pose no threat to your family. Certainly Sunny confirmed its veracity. Would I not be foolish to lie, if there existed even a small possibility that Sunny would detect it and hate me for it?"_

_ Lucius stared into her eyes, searching for a reaction. In the letter to which he referred, he'd unequivocally asserted that he had never murdered anyone, nor had he ever been party to rape or other perverse forms of entertainment that some of the Death Eaters had perpetrated. He was, in short, not the degenerate she may perceive him to be, notwithstanding his unfortunate affiliation with Voldemort. As one would expect, he had exercised extreme prudence in the wording of the letter to avoid mentioning any deeds to which he __had__ been a participant. She didn't need to know he'd tortured people and goblins, or that he'd been forced to lead raids that resulted in deaths. For some reason he didn't fully comprehend, he very much wanted to be a part of this girl's life._

_ "Do you think I actually showed it to my daughter?" shrilled the woman. "I don't want my innocent child harboring those filthy images in her mind!"_

_ "I apologize once again, as that was not my intention. Perhaps it was not the suitable way to go about it, but I can think of no other way to convince you. I spoke the truth and you know it!" Lucius responded levelly. "Regardless, all of this is immaterial. I came here today not for myself, but for Severus Snape."_

_ Mrs. Hawbecker remained motionless in the doorway, blocking entry, though evidently interested. Everyone in the wizarding world knew the name of Severus Snape now, everyone was aware of Snape's sacrifices as a spy for Dumbledore, everyone hailed him as a hero for playing the role that undermined Voldemort and came so close to costing him his life. The witch crossed her arms across her chest and cocked her head as if to say, 'What could you possibly have to do with a war hero?'_

_ "Severus and I have been good friends since we were boys," Lucius began, only to snap, "Don't give me that look! It's the truth. And this matter involving him is confidential."  
_

_"Good day, then." Mrs. Hawbecker stepped inside and started to shut the door._

_ A quick placement of Lucius' boot in the threshold effectively kept the door open a crack. "Wait. He's been cursed." Long pause, then the door inched open to show the woman's face. "Severus is a decent man who doesn't deserve any more gossip. I will require your witch's oath that what I reveal to you will be kept secret."_

_ Mrs. Hawbecker drew up straight, more than curious. Such an oath was no small undertaking, not given lightly by any upstanding witch or wizard. While not as strong as an Unbreakable Vow, and not capable of killing the oath taker, it nonetheless involved a severe loss of personal honour, combined most often with a debilitating sickness on the part of one who broke such a promise. _

_At last she nodded once, extended her hand, and grasped his. "Of course, you have my oath. I will divulge to no one what you reveal to me." A shimmer of blue mist originating between their palms rose up to hover around their hands, then dissipated._

_ Lucius quickly outlined the finding of the accursed diaries among Voldemort's things (leaving out precisely __where__ they'd been found), Snape's subsequent ensnarement by Tom Riddle of the diaries, his imprisonment for the safety of society, Dumbledore's countercharm, and Snape's eventual escape and recapture. He finished with, "I believe the countercurse has worked, but for everybody's sake we must be sure. I've brought this for Sunny to read." He raised his left hand, which clenched the parchment written by Severus so tightly it crinkled in the middle._

_ Mrs. Hawbecker's lips pinched into a line. She appeared more concerned now than annoyed at Malfoy. "He isn't related to Sunny. How can this work?"_

_ "I'm not related, either—not by blood—yet she can tell if I am lying," Lucius explained. "After I met Sunny the first time, I spoke at length to Dr. Cullin about this. He assisted my father in performing the __Conviare__, which is an obscure, rare spell. He said that not only does the spell transfer life force, but in doing so, it transfers an essence of the giver himself to the recipient…in this case, Sunny. And Severus."_

_ "I don't follow," she said._

_ Lucius smirked involuntarily. "You see, when Severus was a boy, Father used the same spell on him to save his life. If Sunny is therefore linked to me, Severus is as well—and they to each other."_

_ Stunned, Mrs. Hawbecker backed up a few paces and dropped heavily into a chair. "This is unbelievable. Is this also the reason Sunny is so magically advanced?"_

_ "Yes and no. Severus didn't receive any magical gifts from the process, only a bit of Father. However, when Father gave your daughter half his life force, he was dying…Dr. Cullin postulated that part of his magical core emptied into her because of that." Lucius gave an impatient motion of his hand toward the interior of the house. "Please, Mrs. Hawbecker, we can talk about this at a later time. Right now, I need to see Sunny."_

_ The woman called out through the house, and a minute later the girl came bouncing into the room and hugged Lucius around the waist. "Hi, Lucius!" A reprimanding look from her mother made her grimace. "I mean, Mr. Malfoy. Mummy says I have to use the proper respect for adults."_

_ "Your mother is right. But you have my permission to call me whatever you like," said Lucius, smiling and patting her golden curls. "I sincerely wish I had time to visit, little one, but I'm in a hurry. My friend is waiting for me." He disengaged himself from the child, dropped to one knee to be closer to her height, and handed her the parchment. "Can you tell me if this is true or false?"_

_ Both adults held their breath as Sunny read the single sentence: __I am Severus Snape, and Tom Riddle no longer controls me.__ "It's true. But __you__ didn't write this. Your handwriting is pretty, and this is all spider-webby-like. And you're not Severus Snape."_

_ Grinning from ear to ear with relief and joy so great it made his cheeks hurt, Lucius replied, "No, I didn't write it. Evidently you have another brother besides me."_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Winky stirred, moaning at the pain in her head. Wicked Regulus had hexed her! She sat up in the cramped, stuffy, dark room and ran her fingers across her bald pate as she fumed. The evil boy had come looking for Master Headmaster Snape, and like a good elf she'd tried to make him go away. And then a spell had hit her, and since no one else had been around, it had to be Regulus—probably trying to emulate his wretched brother, Sirius, whom Master Snape loathed with a burning passion, and therefore Winky loathed as well.

She stood up and crashed against the door, which swung open. "Master? Master Snape?" He wasn't answering. Why wasn't he answering?

With her heart in her throat, she stumbled out of the closet. Something smelled very bad, which didn't particularly surprise her, since that nasty elf belonging to Harry Potter was in charge of keeping a clean house. She must ignore his pitiful housekeeping skills and concentrate on finding her master.

On cue, Kreacher trotted in from the kitchen, his hideous visage twisted into a scowl. "What are you doing here? Snape is not here." It sounded rather accusing.

Winky let out an involuntary squeal at the news that Snape was not present. She squeaked, "Where is he? Wicked Regulus comes looking for him and hurts Winky—"

"Lies!" bellowed Kreacher, balling a fist. "Good Master Regulus is wonderful! Never hurts people! But you aren't a people, you're a bad elf who lost her master."

"Where is Master Snape?' demanded Winky again, putting her hands on her hips and glowering with her tennis ball eyes.

"How would Kreacher know?" retorted Kreacher. One spindly arm gesticulated at the door, beside which set a filthy pair of leather shoes covered in bits of rotting rubbish. Mystery of the god-awful stench resolved. "Kreacher finds good Master Regulus' shoes as master commands, but can't find him. Only finds stupid elf hiding in Master Harry Potter's coat closet."

"I'm not hiding! And not stupid!" screamed Winky. She ran past him to pound up the staircase. A rapid search of Regulus' bedroom, where Snape had been staying, turned up nothing, so she darted into Sirius' room and Harry's room. Nothing, no Master Snape. Maybe he'd gone out, but why didn't he tell her? Was he looking for his lost elf, who'd been abused and shoved in the closet? Should she search outside the house? Where would she start? And what if he returned while she was gone? Wringing her hands and sniffling, she slouched down the steps.

Kreacher wrinkled his snout-like nose at her as he adjusted the locket hanging round his neck. "Kreacher told you he is not here." For emphasis, he wiggled his pointed ears, making the tufts of white hair in them sway gently.

The female elf narrowed her eyes a touch, though a malicious glint shone through. "Then I finds him. Or I finds wicked Regulus and makes him tell where master is."

She disapparated, leaving Kreacher in a tizzy. He must protect good Master Regulus! Mustn't let brainless Winky hurt his master! He disapparated as well, to land with a sharp 'crack' at Spinner's End. He scrambled through the downstairs, then bolted up the stairs two at a time. On his way back down, he caught Winky coming from the cellar; she gasped upon seeing him, then disapparated once more.

Kreacher sat down morosely on the bottom step. He didn't know where Regulus was, nor where Winky was going. What could he do? He'd failed his excellent master. He gave a forlorn howl, threw himself onto the floor, and began to bang his head on the hard wood. He'd nearly given himself a concussion by the time it occurred to him to check Regulus' workplace. Getting unsteadily to his feet, and after the dizziness had passed, he popped over to Diagon Alley and raced into the store.

"Master Regulus?" he called, ignoring the stares of human customers. "_Master Regulus?_"

George Weasley sauntered up to the distraught elf and tapped him on the shoulder. "Kreacher, isn't it? What's wrong? Regulus isn't here yet, he said he'd be late today."

"Brainless Winky looking for good Master Regulus," gushed the elf, scarcely able to hold back desperate tears. "She wants to harm him. Kreacher must warn master, must protect him from stupid Winky elf."

"Kreacher?" Regulus walked up the aisle, picking up speed as he went. "What's wrong? Why are you—" was all he got out before being attacked by the elf, hugging his knees and blubbering incoherently. Reg looked up at George, bewildered.

"It appears Kreacher's got a feud going with an elf named Winky," George explained. "She's looking for you."

"Oh." Reg grinned guiltily. He probably ought to have gone back to make sure she was alright and explain the situation to her. Crap! She'd be wondering where Snape was—and blaming _him_ for the wizard's absence! There were few things more dangerous than a house elf with a grudge. Perhaps he should make a visit to Severus and ask him to summon the elf and call her off…but Sev had just got back home, he and Aline needed time alone. Maybe he'd owl Snape—but whatever he did, it had better be soon, lest Kreacher and Winky rip each other to shreds over Regulus. The very thought made him sick to his stomach.

"George, you got an owl I can borrow?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Evening had not yet set in, but a cold fog had begun to roll in over the mountains. The trainers secured the handful of dragons in the vast community pen, where they huddled together like old grandmothers gathering for a quilting bee. With the rest of the afternoon freed up, the men had gone off to find chores to do, or to find entertainment either in the camp or in the nearby town of Samovilla.

Unable to speak the local language, Draco remained behind. He'd tried to argue that communicating with the dragons wasn't affected by weather, but the handlers had insisted he leave them nevertheless, which irritated him no end. While the overt antagonism to his talent that he'd experienced in his former camp didn't exist here, there remained little actual cooperation. It left him few options, since running to Weasley or the boss, Borimetchka, hardly seemed the way to win friends.

So he ambled aimlessly around the camp, thinking about 'his' dragons. It made him smile to think he'd teased his father about considering Xerxes 'his' dragon, yet now he understood. Too bad Father rarely got to visit Xerxes, which was for the best; the shrew of a mate was the most intimidating dragon Draco had ever met.

Coming out of the rolling mist like a specter, Oksana stepped right in front of Draco. "Oh! Sorry, I did not see you. I almost miss the whole camp!"

"Hi, Oksana," he greeted, grateful for some company. Just as in the Ukrainian camp, the men here were not overly friendly to him; Charlie and Oksana were the two he spoke most often with, but for days Oksana had been gone, sent on an errand of some sort by Borimetchka. He'd become quite lonely. "Did everything go well on your trip?"

"Yes, I accomplish what Bori sent me to do," she said, not elaborating.

Draco didn't ask. He'd learned early on that asking a lot of questions made the others look askance at him, so he resigned himself to receiving whatever information was offered. If it didn't affect him, it probably wasn't his business, anyway. "Want to go for a walk? I'm tired of this same view."

Oksana threw back her head and laughed, a high, pleasant tinkling that carried through the air. "What can we see outside? More fog?"

"If we go further into the valley, it won't be so thick," Draco said.

True enough. Oksana fell into step with him as they walked, mostly in silence, out of the camp, down an embankment of rocks, and into a sloping meadow that delved sharply down to the valley floor. The thick grass and weedy flowers brushed against their legs in a sing-song swish, while the air became more and more clear as they left the fog behind.

"Is beautiful here," said Oksana, gesturing down below where the mist had not yet settled.

"Yes, it is." Draco climbed up onto a flat rock jutting out of the earth and sat down. His eyes scanned the mountains and rolling hills, taking in the majesty of nature. Before leaving home, before seeing the world through the eyes of a dragon, he'd rarely taken the time to really notice and value the loveliness around him. The Malfoy grounds were themselves quite grand; Hogwarts had some breathtaking scenery. He'd been to several countries, had seen many enthralling landscapes, but always other things had seemed more important. "Sometimes I forget to appreciate the wonders around me. I become too focused on a task to look beyond it."

"We all do," she replied as she mounted the stone to sit beside him. Notably, she made no move to pounce on him as she'd done on previous occasions, without success. Charlie had offered her an explanation for her failure: Draco had been brought up differently than most, he was a rich snot who'd been raised among rich, snotty girls. (Although Charlie had used the words 'gentleman' and 'ladies' in place of rich snot, his disdainful tone betrayed his true feelings.) The general gist was that Draco expected women to behave in a certain manner; whether Oksana cared to imitate that manner was yet undecided. "Have you had good talks with the dragons?"

Draco glanced sharply at her, expecting to see ridicule on her face, but all he saw was good humour. He gave a little smile himself. "As a matter of fact, Emerald and I have grown very close. Nugget is sweet, as dragons go. I've barely been allowed to try with the others. I've been wanting to—"

He cut off abruptly, his mouth forming an 'O', then a smirk, then an expression of alarm. Oksana turned to see what he was looking at. Waddling across the field in their direction, stubby legs making its belly drag the grass, was the baby dragon Borimetchka was raising as a pet. Though no official story existed, handlers maintained he'd hatched it from an egg he ostensibly stole from an untended nest. It's moss-green scales blended into the grass, though the bright yellow tips of its wings resembled giant bumblebees floating over the ground.

The dragon snorted and sneezed, igniting a bush on contact with a rush of fire from its nostrils. Judging from the smoking path, this wasn't the first sneeze. Oblivious, the animal continued on its way, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Whipping out their wands, Draco and Oksana ran toward the beast, which reared up with a bellow, shot out a purposeful blast of fire, and veered onto another course.

"Put out the fire!" Draco shouted, even as his wand sent out a stream of water onto the closest flaming patch.

He then took off after the dragon, which had managed to cover a surprisingly great distance in mere seconds as it barreled down the hill. At this rate he'd never catch up, so he cast a _petrificus totalus_; it struck the dragon, which hesitated momentarily, then plowed on. He shot another spell to place an invisible block in front of the fleeing creature. It bumped into the barrier, backed up, and rammed forward harder, then let out a frustrated whimper. By the time Draco reached him, the dragon had dropped onto its haunches to sulk. He acknowledged Draco with a sullen growl in the back of his throat.

"Now don't be that way," said Malfoy in a soothing tone. In his mind he projected an image of a trough full of yummy raw meat chunks next to a roaring fire, two things dragons appeared very fond of. The little one's mouth started to water; drool dribbled onto his chest. Draco laid a firm hand on his snout and stroked affectionately to calm the animal.

"Ah, there ees my baby!" called out Borimetchka from farther up the hill. The sound echoed into the valley. "Come here, Dragomir*."

Draco snickered softly at the imposing figure of the man beckoning, arms outstretched, to his 'baby'. The beast had to be two meters long and weighed as much as a boulder! Dragomir lumbered toward the Bulgarian wizard, who met him halfway and knelt down to stroke his cheeks and flanks while whispering into his floppy ear. At only twenty-eight, Borimetchka was the oldest person in the camp except for one or two handlers, yet Draco had a feeling that his innate air of authority had developed years before, despite his obvious soft spot. Big as he was, no man was about to challenge him physically, nor taunt him for his displays of affection.

Oksana strolled over to meet them, leaving smoking bushes and grass behind her. As she advanced, she remarked loudly enough for all present, "I think 'Dragomir' is poor name for that naughty one."

Borimetchka grinned as he looked up at her. His face bore a rugged handsomeness. "He ees good boy, Oksana. Poor baby ees sick, he need a hot bath with spices for to relax him."

"You pamper him," she challenged.

Borimetchka grinned even wider, and Draco could swear he saw the man wink. "I pamper all who I love." He got up and made a hand motion to the dragon, who obediently fell in behind him. "Oksana, vill you be so kind to heat vater for us? I bring Dragomir in a minute."

The young lady rolled her eyes and twisted her mouth, but she started up the hill toward the foggy camp. "You owe me, Bori!" she called back over her shoulder.

"And one day I pay," he retorted, still wearing a smile. To Draco he said, "I hope Dragomir is not make trouble for you. I am not interrupt something?" He raised his thick, black eyebrows.

"No, you didn't interrupt anything," said Malfoy, flushing. What did Bori think he'd be doing in the middle of a meadow? Shagging Oksana? Then again, from what he knew of the witch, she probably had done things like that. His face went hot and he knew it had become bright red. "We were just talking."

As the two men hiked side by side, he glanced back at the dragon padding contentedly behind them, and he recalled an image he'd seen in the small animal's mind…an image of Borimetchka in the mist. He was speaking, but whether because it was Bulgarian or because the creature didn't comprehend language, Draco couldn't fathom what he was saying. Was it Draco's imagination, or had the fellow been prodding his pet _away_ from the camp? Curious. Very curious, indeed.

(*Dragomir= one who loves the world)

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Severus' hand trembled slightly as it fell upon the doorknob of Prince Manor. It had been so long since he'd been free to come and go, and so much had happened…or rather _he,_ under Riddle's control, had said and done so many things that shamed him. It wasn't his fault, true—when had that ever stopped him from assigning blame to himself when someone he loved was hurt? It was in his makeup as much as his surly disposition was a part of him.

Aline was waiting. He and Lucius had made a fire call to let her know the news, and she'd floo'd to the Prince estate forthwith. He'd apparated over soon after, only to pause on the porch. He ought to have used the floo, yet he needed these seconds to collect himself. Although she'd seemed so happy, he'd heard something in her voice…uncertainty? Relief? Fear? He couldn't tell, so naturally he assumed the worst.

Before he had a chance to turn the knob, the door was wrenched from his grip and flung wide open. A frazzled Aline stood framed there, scarcely breathing as she took in his presence. All of a sudden she threw herself at him, her arms locked behind his neck, and she collapsed against him as she broke down sobbing. His arms folded around her and drew her in, pressing her to him. The last time he'd hugged her, the bulge of his darling sons in her womb had seemed like a barrier between them; he longed for their touch now. His cheek rested on her smooth, soft brown hair that smelled of hyacinth and baby spit.

_It's alright now_, he wanted to say. At one point he thought he had said it, yet surely the enormous lump rising in his throat would have precluded that. He clasped her so tightly he was afraid he'd crack a rib, but she made no complaint.

"I'm sorry," he whispered at last. "I'm so sorry for everything."

"I was—so afraid—you'd—never come back," she choked out between gut wrenching sobs. "I—missed you. I—need you—so much."

"I know," he answered softly, and brushed a series of kisses across her forehead; his grasp on her squeezed a bit harder, as if to pull her inside himself. She missed him, she needed him…he couldn't begin to describe how much he missed and needed her.

Mewling cries from within the house, and Aline lifted her tearstained face from Severus' chest. "The babies," she said as she brushed the back of her hand over her red-rimmed eyes in a pitiful attempt to wipe them dry.

Severus looked upon her with love so deep it made his heart swell. She'd never been more beautiful to him, inside and out, than she was at this moment. He leaned down and kissed her fully on the lips, then rose again. He didn't trust himself to try it again, lest he never stop. "Won't you introduce me to our sons?"

She smiled and sniffled at once, taking his hand to lead him through the foyer into the living room, where the infants squirmed next to each other in a sturdy, elaborately carved crib—one of many gifts from the Malfoys.

As Severus gazed down in awed wonder at the children, Aline bent over and picked up one of the boys, whom she kissed and cradled in her arm while aiming his face toward his father. "Aidan, this is Papa."

"Hello, Aidan," said Severus in his deep drawl.

The lad stopped squirming and stared back at the man with huge, brown eyes, replicas of his mother's. He blinked a few times, then grinned and flailed his arms and kicked his legs. Severus gently took the baby and gathered him to his chest. He planted a kiss on top of his son's head. "Papa's home now," he whispered.

Aline lifted the other infant. "Adriel, it's time to meet Papa."

Having already heard his father's familiar voice, one he'd heard so often in the womb, Adriel cooed and kicked; he reached out a tiny fist to grab Severus' nose, squeeze his cheek, and poke his eye while chuckling in an infant belly laugh. Severus gathered his son in his other arm, unable to think beyond the immense adoration he felt for these two extraordinary creatures. He kissed Adriel while rocking the pair in a gentle sway.

"Aren't they wonderful?" Aline asked. There was no doubt of her sentiments. She cuddled up to her three men, being careful not to squish the children between them.

"They're perfect and beautiful, like their mother," Severus answered, in all honesty. He smirked as his wife squeezed his bum in thanks for the praise. "I regret I was not here when they were born."

There was a short silence, punctuated by the babies' gurgling and thrashing. Aline pulled away from them and stared up into her husband's black orbs. In a timid, halting voice she proposed, "If you want…you can use Legilimency to see it. From my point of view, of course." A nervous half-grin flashed and was gone.

Why did she fear he'd reject her offer? Witnessing the birth this way was the next best thing to being there—or better, because he wouldn't be seeing it from a spectator's view, he'd be experiencing his wife's emotions…in a sense, they'd be truly one. Nothing could top that. "I would like that very much," Severus murmured.

In a heartbeat, he was inside her mind. He winced inwardly at the incredible amount of agony she endured, not so far off from the Cruciatus. How he wished to comfort her, to calm her pain, but even had he been present, he knew he could not have done anything. From her vantage point, he saw Dr. Livingston perched on a low stool at Aline's feet. Poppy was standing nearby looking anxious. His gaze wandered around the room…her old quarters—_his_ old quarters before that. She'd redecorated to her taste, of course, loads of reds and browns, some black and shades of green accents. It still smelled faintly of the sandalwood incense she used to burn there.

Suddenly the doctor reached forward to guide one of the babies out, with Aline trying not to scream in the background. Covered in blood and milky slime, Adriel slipped out into the doctor's waiting hands. Dr. Livingston lifted him up, examined him briefly, and handed him to Poppy, who expertly wrapped a blanket round him and scurried off to the loo, presumably to clean the child.

"It's a boy," he said, and Aline merely nodded. At the moment, she was in too much pain and too busy to care if she was birthing a litter of wracksprats, as long as they got _out_.

More groans and cries, followed rapidly by a howling Aidan. After another perfunctory examination, Dr. Livingston looked at Aline and smiled. "Another boy. Until I get a good look, I can't say for sure, but I think they're identical twins. They're both whole and healthy, Aline. Congratulations."

Worn out, yet eager, Aline stretched out her arms. "I want to hold them."

Severus broke the Legilimens' touch. Two minutes ago, he'd have sworn he could not love Aline more, yet inexplicably he did. His wife, his love, his life, the mother of his most precious sons…sons he was going to have the privilege of raising and teaching. Although he loved Jacinta with all his heart, he had missed so much in her life because of Voldemort, because of the care he had to take to keep her safe. This time around, he had a family he could acknowledge, and nothing short of hell itself was going to drag him away.

Severus blinked back the wetness in his eyes; a solitary tear escaped to course down his cheek. He leaned in to kiss his wife with a passion bordering on frenzy. He wanted to tell her thank you, that it meant the world to him, that he would cherish this vision for the rest of his life, but he didn't need to say a word. Her expression told him she already knew.


	26. Narcissa's Turn

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 26 (Narcissa's Turn)

**September 7, 2000**

Narcissa shouldn't be wasting time ambling about Diagon Alley when she had a party to organize, but she couldn't help herself. The wonderful news about Severus had lifted an enormous weight off her chest; she felt free and cheerful for the first time in months without the horrid undercurrent of fear to spoil everything. After all those years of Lucius as a Death Eater, she ought to be used to fear, but that wasn't the point. She intended to make the most of her joy, including personally delivering invitations to her impromptu soiree.

The bell over the door of Peak's Portraits tinkled sweetly as she entered. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

"Coming!" a voice called from the back room. A moment later, Jacinta rushed in wearing a paint-flecked apron and holding a paintbrush in her hand. "Narcissa, this is a surprise!" The guarded expression on her face said she wasn't sure whether a good or a bad surprise. Given the situation of late, the reaction was warranted.

Narcissa smiled, putting her at ease. "We're hosting a welcome back celebration for Severus tonight. I know it's short notice; I just couldn't let pass such a happy event without an acknowledgement." She'd begun walking along one wall, studying the portraits waiting to be picked up by their families, who stared right back at her. "Did you paint these? They're exquisite."

Jacinta smiled back as she shook her head. "I only did that one—the man in the blue jacket. Mr. Peak did the rest. He's really fast at this from so many years of practice." She gestured excitedly toward the room whence she'd come. "I'm in the process of painting George Weasley—well, Fred, actually, but since they're twins…Anyway, we've been at it for a couple of weeks now. He got the idea from Regulus. Did you know Reg had me paint his portrait so he could talk to himself? He's a nutter." She stopped talking when George popped his head through the curtain dividing the store, wearing his habitual grin.

"Look smart, now, Jacinta. I can't be here all day—" George caught sight of Narcissa, and froze in his spot. A brief inner debate later, he lurched through the curtain. "Hello, Mrs. Malfoy. Sorry to interrupt."

"Mr. Weasley," she answered in a pleasant tone, masking the cold sentiment. She thought to herself how proud Lucius would be of her composure. Malfoys and Weasleys were like oil and water: occasionally they were thrown together, but they didn't mix. "I'll let Jacinta get back to her work." She looked directly at the young woman. "I'll see you tonight, seven o'clock?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Jacinta answered. She raised her hand holding the brush in order to wave; a fat blob of orange hue trickled down the stem.

Before she'd had a chance to move, George swooped forward and plucked the brush from her. The paint smattered on the floor. "Nearly got that in your hair, silly bird," he chuckled, puffing out his chest like a hero. "Georgie saved you."

"Give me that," she replied, rolling her eyes and snatching at the brush.

Narcissa observed in silence the—in her opinion—overly familiar interplay. While Jacinta may be paid to paint a portrait for Weasley, she was under no obligation to befriend him. Merlin's britches, if Severus came upon his daughter frolicking with a Weasley, he'd have a stroke!

As she rested her hand on the doorknob, Narcissa commented, "I trust you will be arriving with Theodore Nott, Jacinta?"

"Of course," answered the girl, looking slightly puzzled. "Who else would I go with?"

"Of course," Narcissa echoed. Her lips tilted faintly upward once more and she opened the door. "I'll see you at seven."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**April 1998**

Lord Voldemort flew through the cold night air, seething with a mixture of rabid disappointment and fury. Grindelwald had refused to succumb to his questioning about the Elder Wand, had dared to taunt him—had dared to _laugh_ at him. Even killing the toothless coot had offered no solace. Normally a good murder cheered him, but these were not normal circumstances. He needed that wand _now_, he was sick and tired of this game with that brat, Potter!

Speaking of Potter, he'd been summoned to Malfoy Manor—hence the flight through the frigid air. He'd sternly warned them all to take heed, that to summon him for any reason other than Harry Potter on a silver platter would warrant severe retribution. No one could claim Lord Voldemort's threats were either ambiguous or idle, so if the Golden Boy wasn't hogtied and waiting to be dismembered, heads would roll…in the figurative sense, sadly. At the present, he needed as many Death Eaters as he could muster.

When the dark lord had decided to take up residence at Malfoy Manor, he'd ordered Lucius to remove the wards against apparition for his master's convenience; Lucius had done so grudgingly, against his will and better judgment. Because of that act, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had been able to apparate out of the drawing room at Malfoy Manor, just as Voldemort apparated in only seconds later. The folly of his command stared Voldemort in the face as he surveyed the spacious room.

The long table, used only for general meetings, had been dispatched with, leaving the middle of the room free, save for the crystal chandelier broken and twisted there; shards of glass littered the floor. Draco, who'd evidently been hit with flying glass, huddled beside the ornate marble fireplace by his mother, blood running down his face. He let out a frightened squeak at the master's entrance. Lucius lay unconscious on the hearth, thanks to a _stupefy_ from Harry Potter; Narcissa knelt beside him, stroking his hair and trying to wake him. Upon spying the dark lord, she seemed petrified with fear and could do no more than gape at Voldemort. Courtesy of a triple _stupefy_, Greyback also lay prone on the floor near Bellatrix, who gazed up at the dark lord when he appeared; her dark eyes grew wide, her jaw went slack, her breath quickened. Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen.

"My lord, he was here! Only moments ago—" wailed Bella.

Wrathful slits of red aimed her way, and Voldemort hissed, "And where is he _now_?"

"That dreadful elf, Dobby, came to save him, and they attacked us, and they fought, and—" she rambled hurriedly.

"Where. Is. Potter?" growled Voldemort.

"He—he escaped," Bella whispered. In the silent room, it had the impact of a gunshot. "Stole a wand and disapparated." She bowed her head, whimpering softly, obviously anticipating a harsh curse to fall upon her.

To the surprise of everyone, Voldemort took three steps over to Bellatrix. He jerked her chin up and his eyes bored into hers, making her whimper all the more from the vicious violation of her mind. From her position on the floor, Narcissa watched the proceedings with growing terror. Lord Voldemort would witness through Bella's eyes everything that had occurred, which one might suppose would lessen his rage, but Narcissa knew better. Potter had been here; Potter was now gone. No reasoning, no excuse would suffice to explain it away or to mitigate the punishment to come.

After a couple of tension-filled minutes, Voldemort broke off the Legilimency connection and released his servant. As Narcissa had predicted, he looked not one tiny bit placated. He took a single step backward, drew his wand, and shouted, "_Crucio!_"

Bellatrix dropped to the floor screaming. She rolled and thrashed, with tears pouring from her eyes, yet Voldemort was unmoved. He gazed down at her, his snakelike face contorted in fury, as he castigated his most loyal lieutenant. At length he lifted the wand, leaving her gasping and sobbing. His head turned to Narcissa.

"_Accio_, wand," he spat, his hand extended. Narcissa's wand flew into his grasp from the spot where Dobby had thrown it. He tossed it disdainfully at her. It struck her chest and landed on Lucius' inert form. "Who do you think is most responsible for Potter's escape, Narcissa?"

"I—I d-don't know, my lord," she stammered.

"Give a guess," Voldemort cooed, making him sound all the more ominous. The 's' rang in the air, a drawn out hiss.

"Er…Dobby?" she ventured.

"Guess again," Voldemort purred, looking around at those in the room. "I'll give you a hint: you're related."

Tears of desperation sprang to Narcissa's eyes. That had to mean either Lucius, Draco, or Bella. Lucius hadn't a wand at all, the dark lord had taken it months ago and destroyed it. How could he be blamed? Draco was only a boy, not holding any authority. That left…Bella. She'd brazenly taken over commanding the Snatchers, she'd usurped control in the house. Choking out the word, Narcissa said, "Bella?"

"Liar!" Bellatrix screeched from where she lay.

"It's not Lucius or Draco!" Narcissa shrieked back. "You were giving all the orders and making the decisions, you tortured the mudblood while Potter and Weasley overpowered Wormtail and got his wand!"

"Why don't you teach her a lesson, Narcissa?" crooned Voldemort, easing up beside her. "Take out your rage on the culpable."

Narcissa hesitated. Being angry with her sister was nothing new; they'd even fought with wands a few times in the past. But this…she was being asked to attack a defenseless witch. She chanced a glance at the dark lord and gulped. She was not being asked—it was an order. Raising her wand in her shaking hand, she pointed it at Bellatrix. "_Crucio_."

Lack of desire on Narcissa's part to do any real damage made Bella's body spring up and fall back down without so much as a yelp of pain. Panicking, Narcissa tried again, with similar results.

Sighing, Voldemort aimed at Draco, whose bloody face reflected in the gilded mirror over the fireplace made him look like twin gargoyles gaping in fear. "Must I teach your mother how to do it properly, young Malfoy?" He gave no opportunity for Draco to respond before the Cruciatus struck him, driving him to his knees, howling in agony.

"Please, my lord, no!" sobbed Narcissa. She stopped short of clutching his arm. "_Please!_"

Draco collapsed onto the hearth beside Lucius, who'd begun to rouse from the _stupefy_. The boy's shrieks reverberated about the room.

Narcissa aimed again, and this time all her motherly instincts to protect her son kicked in. "_Crucio!_" The curse slammed into Bella so hard it knocked her backward. Bella wailed and screamed every bit as hard as she had from the dark lord's curse. Afraid to let it go, Narcissa held it for what seemed an eternity.

Voldemort had lifted his wand from Draco, and he watched the scene with a sadistic pleasure. At last he motioned for her to let it go, and Narcissa lowered her wand. Dryly he observed, "Much less pitiful. Now, dear Narcissa, you must punish your husband. He, too, was at fault for not keeping a closer eye on Wormtail, whose intellectual capacity barely filled a thimble." If he'd had eyebrows, he'd have raised them expectantly. Instead, the skin above his eyes wrinkled menacingly.

"My lord, I can't," Narcissa cried, throwing herself at his feet. "I can't hurt Lucius, please don't order me to. I'll torture Greyback, I'll—"

"You'll do as I say." Voldemort's wand shot out a blast that raised Draco into the air, to hover near the ceiling, limbs splayed. "Do it, or watch your son ripped to pieces before your eyes."

A mournful wail forced its way from Narcissa's throat. "My lord, have mercy, I beg you!"

A flick of his wand set Draco to howling; his arms and legs had gone straight and were moving slowly outward. The howls turned to shrieks.

"Do it, Narcissa!" Lucius bellowed, scrambling toward her. "Do it now!"

She needed no further encouragement. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she pointed the wand at Lucius' chest and uttered the odious word. He pitched backward onto the floor, his hair encircling his head like a white-blond halo as he screamed and flailed under the curse.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**September 7, 2000**

_April 1998_

_ Harry Potter, so close to being within my grasp, has escaped unscathed once more. How I hate that wretched brat! Those who were unable to keep him once capturing him have been punished. I tortured them for hours, made them torture each other, yet I feel no satisfaction. Potter is still gone._

_ Lucius, my former right hand, has become weak and pathetic. Azkaban may be partially to blame, but for the most part it is his wife and son who hinder him; they have always created a deficiency in him. His foolhardy loss of my diary and his failure in the Department of Mysteries are only two in a string of failures, culminating with tonight, and compounded by his damnable __love__ of Narcissa and Draco. With other Death Eaters in positions of power in the Ministry, Malfoy is of little use now, except for his money. He lacks the brutality required for a time such as this. It sickens me._

_ And Narcissa. She is a distraction not only to her husband, but to a good many other Death Eaters who find her attractive, who lust for her like animals. Today I brought out a quality many of them might find disconcerting: a heartless, cold ferocity that, if directed at them, would likely prove fatal. I must admit, it thrilled me just a bit. She's got a touch of Bellatrix in her after all. Nonetheless, it does not negate their failure. Nothing will, except bringing me Harry Potter._

Severus looked up from the diary to see Aline watching him. It made him shift guiltily in his seat. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for what these books had put them all through, he wanted to throw them into the rubbish bin and never look at them again…instead, he shut the diary and slid it into the top drawer of his desk.

Aline walked over and bent down to kiss his brow, then hugged his neck. "It's alright, Severus. Salazar Slytherin and Dumbledore made the countercurse so that the more you read, the more it heals you. Soon you'll be completely well and free."

"I'll never be able to look at them without thinking of what happened," he answered in a low voice. "I do still feel the pull…it's much less now than it was. I don't feel like I'll die if I don't get to read them. That's a good sign."

"A very good sign," she assured him. "Come on, it's time to get ready for the party. It's in your honour, you can't be late."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Narcissa's gathering turned out to be a veritable Who's Who Among Death Eaters at Large. Given the nature of Severus' ailment, the necessity of secrecy, the only people invited were those who'd played a part in the drama, most notably his captors—Dolph, Rabby, Marshal, Nott, Bayly, Regulus, Theo, and Jack, along with their loved ones. Aline and Jacinta went without saying, and Severus had indicated he preferred a private visit with his siblings at a later time. Narcissa had debated whether to invite Minerva McGonagall and other professors, but it didn't seem like an optimal idea—tempting fate and all, with so many opportunities for someone to let slip a wrong name and such…not to mention the true reason for Severus' absence from school, his imprisonment…yes, _way_ too many opportunities for calamity.

Regulus nervously skirted round Dolph and Jorab, who were arguing with Marshal near the punch bowl about the subtle aspects of dueling with a borrowed wand. Tiny glass cup in hand, Reg slipped along the perimeter of the wall and edged up to Aline and Severus, while glancing cautiously to and fro.

Without looking directly at him, Severus drawled, "Any specific reason you're acting weirder than usual, Reg?"

"Don't say my name!" he hissed back, giving the impression of desperation.

"Why? Have you become a dark lord?" Aline asked, chortling. The whole idea of people being afraid of a name had never made sense to her…besides which, Regulus was one of the sweetest young men she'd ever met, making the whole notion positively hilarious from her perspective.

Both Severus and Regulus graced her with withering glares, as well they might, having been part of the crowd who'd at one time subscribed to the theory of not saying Voldemort's name.

Aline shrugged and smiled. "You know that doesn't work on me, Severus. I'm not one of your students, or a store employee, or one of your…" She trailed off as a sudden thought struck her. Had Severus thought she was making light of what had happened to him? He had, after all, been under the control of the worst dark lord the world had ever seen. "I didn't mean anything by that," she murmured, locking her eyes on his.

The corner of his mouth quirked involuntarily, and his face softened. "I know that, love. You don't have to censor your speech with me. And to be quite frank, it was a clever quip." His hand squeezed hers.

"Can we cut all the lovey-dovey, make-you-want-to-barf crap?" Regulus exploded. "You two are getting as bad as Lucius and Cissy!"

"I take that as a compliment, Reg," answered Aline. Her free hand grasped his wrist and pulled him in close. She lowered her voice. "What's wrong?"

"That Winky elf," Reg whispered, darting glances round the room. "Where is she?"

"At Hogwarts, I presume," said Snape.

"You _presume_?" repeated Regulus. "You don't even know?"

A taunting sneer so familiar to everyone who knew Severus appeared on his face. "Why? You've taken a fancy to her, have you?" He let out a snicker.

"Well—don't be stupid!" Regulus sputtered, blushing.

"Reg, as enjoyable as listening to you ramble is, I'd prefer not to play the what-in-sodding-hell-is-up-your-arse game. If you've got a point, spit it out."

"She's after me!" Reg hissed back. "I already died once, I'm really not in the mood for a second go. And I didn't even hex her!"

"Ahhh," Aline said, nodding knowingly. "Honey, let's stop teasing him. The poor boy is rattled enough." To Regulus she said, "We got your owl yesterday, and Severus summoned Winky. Now that she's seen he's fine, she's gone back to Hogwarts without a fight. You're safe."

Regulus heaved a huge breath and his body relaxed so completely he looked like he might tumble over. "Thank God. I was afraid she'd show up and kill me in my sleep. Kreacher, you can go home now. I'll be alright."

From behind the draperies hanging to the floor, Kreacher toddled out wearing a frightening grin. He bowed low to Regulus, clasping his hand and smothering it with kisses. "Kreacher will always protect good Master Regulus." Then he disapparated.

"May I have your attention!" came Lucius' voice, strong and clear. All eyes turned to Malfoy, standing framed in the double doors entering the parlour (the ballroom being far too large for a modest gathering of this size). Narcissa stood beside him, smiling and surveying the guests. "As you all know, we're here to welcome Severus back, and to wish him, Aline, and their new sons all the best. A hearty congratulations from all of us on the precious addition to your family." He raised his glass, and everyone followed suit.

"Severus, would you like to say a few words?" asked Narcissa.

His expression resembling a snarl answered that question very succinctly. However, with Aline poking him in the robs, he rolled his eyes and said, "Lucius, I owe you a great debt of gratitude for all you've done to help me. We needn't go into the particulars, everyone here is aware of the details." With obvious effort he went on, "For all of you who spent your time and energy on tracking me down, cursing me, and guarding me, I am still torn on whether to thank you or hex you, so don't push me."

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.

"As for Aline, my rock and my lighthouse to guide me back…she knows how I feel about her." His black eyes caressed her face from afar, then he glanced out over the audience. "The rest of you don't need to know. Cheers." He lifted his cup of punch in a toast; in unison, they all downed a swallow.

A round of general clapping followed his short speech, and then the people went back to what they'd been doing. Jacinta and Theo Nott were sitting on the love seat talking to Bayly and Gloria. Narcissa pulled Lucius down a bit by the arm so she could whisper something in his ear; accompanied by a look of concern, he casually regarded the guests. He allowed his gaze to settle on Theo, then scrutinized the couple. He murmured something back in Narcissa's ear, and she giggled, putting a hand to her mouth.

From across the room, his arm firmly hooked about Aline's waist, Severus watched his host and hostess. How often over the years had he mocked them or made snide remarks about their affection for one another? He'd done so primarily from a sentiment of embarrassment to be present; in retrospect, he found it charming. Alright, maybe a little nauseating at times, but the notion of being so close with Aline, of pawing her and doing…loads of things he didn't care to share with the world…what was his point again?

Whatever. The image burned into his mind at the moment was that of his dearest friends being punished and afflicted by Voldemort, of Narcissa being coerced into torturing her beloved husband. Severus' jaw tightened, his nostrils flared slightly. The horror of that night…had there been others like it? Could he live with himself if he'd been forced to harm Aline to save his son? Lucius had never told him what happened the night of Potter's escape, had probably never spoken of it to anyone, and Severus had assumed along with everyone else that the dark lord had dispensed 'justice' in the usual fashion. How wrong they had been.

Lucius bent down and kissed Narcissa's lips; he smiled at her with an expression suggesting a supreme understanding and love between them, and Narcissa gazed back at him with the identical look. They released each other's hands and separated in order to socialize with their guests.

"I've never seen any couple so in love," Aline said softly as she rested her head on his shoulder. "Aren't they adorable?"

"Yes, that's the word that springs to mind," Severus replied drolly. "And what do you mean? What about us?"

Aline twisted her neck to get a better view of him. "Of course we love each other, but we're not exactly…publicly demonstrative, if you know what I mean. One day I hope we're just like them."

Severus cocked his head, pursed his lips in thought, and blinked slowly once, twice. If that's what she wanted… He spun her to face him, dipped her over his arm, and leaned down to plant a fervent kiss. Aline wrapped her arms around his neck and proceeded to snog him silly. When the two finally came up for air, they were treated to a strong round of applause, complete with catcalls.

Turning a deaf ear to the onlookers, Severus crooned, "Not demonstrative?"

"I stand corrected," Aline panted, flushing and straightening her robes.

There was a throat clearing off to the side. Regulus tilted his head to empty his cup, then noted in a deadpan voice, "You know, I'm still standing here, and to the best of my knowledge, I'm not under an invisibility cloak or charm. Are you two just blinded by love, or what?"

Aline's face beamed scarlet. "Sorry, Reg. We didn't mean to ignore you."

The young man's eyes twinkled with devilment. "I forgive you. There's something I don't get though. Sev, you're delighted to have Aline again, for obvious reasons, but what does she see in you?"

By way of answer, Severus swatted him in the shoulder, and Reg laughed. For once Snape had no snarky retort!

"I think we'd better get back to the party," suggested Aline. She took a step in the direction where the women had all congregated to chat; she turned back long enough to wink and whisper, "Later we can pick up where we left off."

"Count on it," Severus answered.

Regulus' smirk widened as he said, "She had the babies a week ago. Aren't you supposed to let her heal before you try to jump her bones?"

"Shut up, prat," Severus rejoined, surprisingly good naturedly. He swatted Regulus again and indicated for him to follow. They ambled over to join their old school chums, Nott and Jack Mulciber. It had been a long time since the four of them had gotten together, perhaps the first time since his wedding. It felt good to be back among friends and family. Very good, indeed.

(information on apparating out of Malfoy Manor was obtained in chapter 23 of _HP and the Deathly Hallows_-it specifically says Ron apparated out with Hermione, as did Harry with Dobby)


	27. Duel

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 27 (Duel)

**October 1, 1974**

Lucius had arrived home from his job at the Ministry, had a nice dinner with his wife of not quite three months, and was relaxing in the parlour with Narcissa and Abraxas when the pain struck. From the experience of seeing his companions punished for tardy arrival, he knew better than to dawdle. Upon first joining the Death Eaters two years ago, the master had made a habit of torturing him, of trying to coerce him to savagery, with moderate success; firsthand knowledge of the suffering to come made him all the less eager to become noticed for an inauspicious reason.

He hurriedly gathered his new Death Eater robes and mask, and left immediately. When he apparated into a hot, sandy, desolate area overlooking what appeared to be a dried-up lake bed covered with a film of salt, he merely stood blinking in astonishment. Merlin's ghost, where was he? He whirled in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings—more bleak desolation, sand dunes. It was official: he could definitively say that of the cramped, dank London flat, the frigid Norwegian mountains with a gorgeous view, or _here_, this was by far the worst place Lord Voldemort had chosen for his headquarters.

Lucius ran up the embankment, following two other Death Eaters who'd apparated nearby. He came to a full stop at the top, where Lord Voldemort sat upright, crossed-legged, on a large, flat boulder that seemed out of place. A ripple of subversion resonated through Malfoy's mind at the image of a snake sunning itself on a rock. He dropped his eyes to avoid Voldemort's red orbs.

Several others were already forming a semi-circle around the master, who peered imperiously down at them, his distorted features shining white in the last rays of sunlight. By the time all dozen Death Eaters were in place, twilight had begun to fade into night.

"Does anyone know where we are?" queried Voldemort.

The hooded figure beside Lucius hopped up and down, hand raised, going, "Oh! Oh! I know!"

"Of course you know, Bellatrix," Voldemort replied. "You've been here with me for a week."

She put down her hand, and even with the mask covering her face, Lucius could tell she was sulking. He smirked at her before remembering his face was masked as well.

"Arabia?" someone across the circle ventured.

"The Sahara Desert?" said another.

"Hell?" Lucius muttered under his breath.

"What was that, Lucius?" the dark lord hissed, drawing out the 's' in a manner that set people's teeth on edge. His head turned in a lazy arc to aim Malfoy's way.

Uh-oh. He hadn't thought anyone had heard him. Lucius cleared his throat. "I—well, it's hot and ugly, the way they describe hell, so I thought—"

"Did I tell you to think, Malfoy?" said Voldemort dangerously.

"No, my lord. Forgive me."

"I didn't think, master," cheerfully offered Lucius' old schoolmate, Goyle.

"Good for you," responded Voldemort drolly. Honestly, he'd be shocked if more than half a dozen thoughts crossed Goyle's mind in any given week. "We are in Australia. Three months of that mountain cold in Norway was enough for me." A wave of surprised utterances made their way through the group. Voldemort gestured toward the gaping pit that doubled as a salt lake during rainy times. "Lake Disappointment, to be precise. Do not let the name give you any ideas."

Voldemort stood up on the boulder, to point at a level piece of sandy ground close by. "I have called only my oldest and my youngest disciples. The more experienced are to instruct their more tender counterparts on curses and hexes that I've taught you over the years. Avery, since you have likely been training your son, I am pairing him with Dolohov. It never hurts to gain new perspectives."

"My son is fifteen now," Terrell Rosier interjected. "Soon it will be my honour to present him to you, my lord."

Lewis Mulciber glanced silently in the direction of his hooded comrade. His own son, Jack, was fourteen. There was no way in hell—or Australia—that he'd present that brain-damaged, stubborn cretin to the master, even if he were of age!

"Fifteen is a mere boy," Voldemort answered Rosier. "I will make the determination when he is ready. Remove your masks and hoods." In a simultaneous flash, the Death Eaters obeyed. All of the elder crowd ranged in age from mid to late forties, which was not surprising since they'd been at school with Tom Riddle. "Yaxley, take Macnair. Mulciber, do what you can with Goyle. Rosier, you teach Malfoy."

There were now five remaining: the Lestrange brothers and Bellatrix, Quenby Nott, and Milton Avery. The very tips of the dark lord's mouth lifted as he faced the two young men; it gave him a crueler, colder mien than the ordinary snakelike presence, which was chilling enough. His gaze pierced Rabastan as he said, "Your father, Claudius, would have been an excellent instructor. His skill in the Dark Arts was very advanced."

Rabastan shifted uncomfortably and dropped his head. Lord Voldemort had taken the opportunity to remind him once more that he knew Rabby had killed his father. The young man prayed fervently and silently that the master wouldn't tell Dolph; at the same time, he despaired in his heart of God hearing the prayers of a Death Eater, even a newly Marked one.

"Rodolphus, go with Avery. Rabastan, you'll be with Nott."

"My lord?" Bella piped up. "I have no partner."

The creepy smile on Voldemort's face inched wider. "I will instruct you, Bellatrix. And I have a special gift for you later."

Bella's expression of rapt joy made Lucius roll his eyes. If the master's 'instruction' or 'gift' was what he suspected, he hoped to be far, far away when it came to fruition.

"Let's go, Malfoy," Rosier said, prodding the boy in the back.

Following the lead of the rest of the group, Lucius shrugged off the hot Death Eater robes then traipsed behind Rosier as the gang filed over to the indicated area. He knew Mr. Rosier from the handful of times he'd been a guest of Lucius' father at Malfoy Manor during social events. Not to say the men were close friends, or friends of any sort whatsoever, but pureblood families, as a rule, stuck to their own when socialising. He wondered idly if Abraxas knew Mr. Rosier was a Death Eater. If so, it was not from information obtained from his son; Lucius carefully avoided any discussion of his extracurricular activities, mainly for Abraxas' sake—what he didn't know couldn't be used against him by the authorities. Lucius turned slightly to glimpse Voldemort, who was watching his men with a strange eagerness.

"Pay attention!" snapped the older wizard, giving the youth a light smack on the side of the head.

Lucius bristled. "I _was_ paying attention."

"What did I say?"

In reply, Lucius narrowed his eyes and pinched his lips. Another quick glance up at the master made him visibly shrink. Those awful red eyes seemed to be settled directly on him. "I didn't hear you."

"I said turn your body sideways; it gives them less to fire at." Rosier demonstrated as he lifted his wand, aimed a distance ahead of him, and uttered, "_Reles Rokke_."

The earth literally moved, though hardly at earthquake proportions. In a small patch, the ground shuddered and vibrated, and suddenly an unseen rock the size of a baseball worked itself out of the depth of the dirt and shot up through the sand. Another flick of Rosier's wand send it sailing off into the distance.

"We don't really have anything around here to hit with the rocks," he said ruefully. "If you do it strong enough, they can knock a man's head off, or even split a tree trunk."

_Goody. If I become a lumberjack, I'll remember that_, Lucius mused sardonically. Nonetheless, he pointed his wand and repeated the incantation. All around him, various dark, obscure spells were being practiced, giving the air an almost static charge. From his spot overlooking the action, Voldemort observed his troops, occasionally inclining his head towards Bella, who perched on the boulder beside him, looking like a ferocious cat about to pounce on hapless prey.

After an hour or so, the dark lord raised his wand, sending a shock wave over the desert and knocking his Death Eaters off their feet. As they stood up, they faced their master with expressions of worried concern, and well founded: if Voldemort was pissed, someone was going to pay.

"My friends." Ah, there was the blatant insincerity they'd come to know so well. "I have given Bellatrix permission to choose the best instructor and the best pupil from among the lot of you. They are to spar, and the winner will then fight Bellatrix."

_For my perverse amusement_ was the phrase left unsaid, yet wholly understood. While every man longed to be selected for the prestige, more than a little reluctance accompanied the desire, for if they lost the contest, they were likely to be punished accordingly. The precedent had been set years ago.

Bella scampered off the stone and over to where the Death Eaters awaited her verdict. She deliberately strolled among them, brushing up against the more attractive wizards, casting disingenuous flirtatious glances here and there. Pursing her lips, she turned to Dolohov and said, "I choose you."

Dolohov appeared less than thrilled. Shortly after Bella had become one of the fold, he'd been summarily trounced in a duel with her, and subsequently tortured for his failure. He was not one to forgive or forget.

She minced her way across the sand to Lucius, opened her pouty mouth as if to speak, then burst out in cackles. "Don't get your hopes up, blondie. I'm not picking you! I choose Rodolphus." So saying, she flounced out of the playing field, impatiently waving for the non-chosen to get out of the way.

Dolohov and Rodolphus faced each other, gave a stiff bow, and leapt into position, both of them firing at once. A purple curse hurtled past Rodolphus' ear as he dodged; his own curse sailed by Dolohov to strike Goyle full in the chest. Goyle's eyes went wide and he looked down at his trousers where a urine stain was rapidly growing. The other Death Eaters tittered, though they notably bolted out of range behind sand dunes, only poking out their heads to watch.

Fast and furious the hexes flew back and forth, both men blocking, parrying, jumping. However, the experience of many years of practice won out. Dolohov cast a spell at the ground between them, whipping up a mini-tornado that rushed at Rodolphus with the speed of a train, raising mounds of sand and dust that choked his throat and stung his eyes so badly he couldn't see to avoid the next curse, which propelled him backward to land on his back, gasping for air. Dolohov walked up to him and pointed his wand in Lestrange's face; it was over, a winner declared.

Lord Voldemort clapped slowly, making it sound like a mockery of applause. Unsure of what to do, the Death Eaters did nothing except wait for him to speak. "Well played, Dolohov. You took advantage of your environment, a lesson to you all. Now, Bellatrix, for your gift: you may battle Dolohov alone, or select one of our young Death Eaters to unite with you against Dolohov and a comrade of his choosing."

Bella sucked in her bottom lip as she surveyed the men before her. As a whole, they were above proficient in dueling, especially the older wizards, even if they couldn't reach her own high standards. This could be fun. "I'll let Dolohov choose a partner first," she said magnanimously.

"Yaxley," said Dolohov immediately.

Bella nodded, then her half-lidded eyes roamed over the group again. Rodolphus obviously wasn't up to it after that last battle; Goyle was a piss-soaked moron; Eiros Avery was skilled, but not the brightest log in the fire…same for Macnair. That left Rabby or blondie. Basically it was a toss-up, for they were both exceptional for their age, though she'd slit her own throat before telling Lucius that. Of course, the fact that she'd trained Malfoy to fight accounted for a lot. Nevertheless, picking him would be akin to admitting she thought he was good…it just didn't sit right. It made her want to heave even to consider it.

"I've decided to duel alone."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**September 8, 2000**

_Oct. 1, 1974_

_ Just when I believed Bellatrix couldn't surprise me any more, she outdid herself. Today she battled Dolohov and Yaxley in a handicap match that was—how shall I put it—__magical__ to watch. Had __I__ been the one pitted against them, their defeat would have been a foregone conclusion; to witness her decimate them so thoroughly gave me goosebumps._

_ To add to the excitement, the Death Eaters arrived here with evident expectation of a nefarious plot to execute, when in reality I only wished to enjoy the spectacle of their combat. It didn't hurt to have the older men mentor the younger—they've got to learn curses somewhere, and I haven't the desire to babysit them all. I have my hands full with Bellatrix._

Severus stopped reading, his face twisted into a look of utter disgust. If Voldemort was about to go on reciting the delights of that harrowing banshee bitch, he was not about to read it. Whatever perversions those two lunatics shared was best forgotten by the world. Frankly, Snape preferred not to spend the rest of his life trying to scrub those hideous memories from his mind, assuming he didn't wrench his brain out through his nose with a bent fork tine from the horror of it.

He stood up and slid the book back into its spot in his desk drawer. Aline must be rubbing off on him; in the old days, his desk was piled with books and potions and papers, and he liked it that way. Now, he found himself desiring a more organized atmosphere—not to say he compared in the least with Aline's obsessive-compulsive bent, but he did notice a change in his attitude.

Speaking of attitude, he had an appointment to keep with the most irritating Gryffindor he'd ever had the misfortune to know…and he had to stop in at Potter's house as well. Severus gave a wry smile; Potter was no longer at the top of the list. Things were changing, indeed.

XXOXOXOXOOOOXOXOXOXOXOO

"Professor! Come in." Harry moved aside to let the older man by. "Is everything alright now? Or do you need to stay here again?"

Snape heaved a long, heavy breath. He'd made a vow, and he had to keep it. "Everything is fine now. Thank you for your concern, and for your earlier assistance." He stepped inside and Harry closed the door.

"You're welcome. Would you like some tea or something?"

"No, thank you." Severus glimpsed a movement from the corner of his eye. It was Kreacher skulking in the shadows, probably wondering if W inky had come along. "I promised you that when things settled down, I would give you an account of my actions. Are we alone?"

"Yes," Harry said, nodding. "Except for Kreacher."

"The elf already knows what I'm going to say," Severus asserted, noting the look of betrayal Potter shot at Kreacher. "Regulus instructed him to keep silent, as I must trust you will do." _Unless I demand a wizard's oath._

"I promised before that I wouldn't tell anyone, and I won't," Harry insisted. "How bad can it be?" _Did I seriously just ask that from a man who used to be a Death Eater?_

"Maybe I will have that tea after all." Severus veered into the kitchen, where Kreacher had already put a pot on to boil. To Harry, who'd followed him in, he added, "You may want to sit down for what I have to say."

XXOXOOXOOXOXXXOOXOOOOXXOX

Harry couldn't stop gaping. He wanted to; he knew he must look like a guppy out of water, with his astonished eyes the size of fists and his mouth moving without the benefit of words coming out.

"Close your mouth, Potter. You look like an idiot."

There we go, that did the trick! Harry exclaimed, "Oh, my God! You were Voldemort!"

Tight-jawed, Snape growled, "As I explained, it was more complex than that. And _you_ should talk! You were his living, breathing horcrux." It was a low blow, he knew, but he couldn't resist in the face of that loathsome accusation.

Suddenly Harry grinned, then he started to chuckle. "That is so pathetic, isn't it? The one thing we have in common is _him_."

"Hmph," Severus grunted without any real passion behind it.

"It's too bad we couldn't have been on better terms like this all those years ago." Harry stirred some honey into his tea, tasted it, then added some more. "Don't you think?"

Strained awkwardness. What did Potter want him to say? Merlin, he'd already given the brat-who-lived one of the deepest, darkest secrets of his life! "I believe that by now someone has told you, if you haven't gleaned it yourself." He snorted. _Right. Harry Potter making that deduction all by himself, based solely on all the clues and information available?_ The vacuous expression peering at him made it plain the boy had no idea what Snape was on about. "It's hardly a secret that I regarded you contemptuously from the day I set eyes upon you. You can thank your father for inciting such animosity in me."

"Why do we always go back to my father? I'm not James Potter."

Severus frowned, then puckered his lips at the unpalatable conversation. The can of worms had been opened, he may as well empty it once and for all. "Nonetheless, I resented being manipulated by Dumbledore into watching over the son of the man I hated. I allowed my bitterness to colour my view of you…I treated you badly for no good reason—"

"Finally you admit it!" Harry crowed triumphantly.

Going on without missing a beat, Severus intoned, "—until I got to know you and forthwith discovered a plethora of reasons to react with distaste: sloth, constant disobedience, recklessness, disregard for the life I was trying so hard to save. Need I go on?"

Harry twisted his mouth and ducked his head. "I guess it was partly my fault—but not at first."

"Did I not just say that?" Severus snapped. Sometimes he was still tempted to slap some sense into the kid. "How many times must I acknowledge that I regret my early behaviour toward you?"

"_Once_ would be nice," Harry retorted, looking up into Snape's eyes. Huh. He hadn't noticed before, but the black orbs didn't seem lifeless anymore, the way they used to…before Aline.

Severus clenched his jaw and let out a laboured, heavy breath from his nostrils. Dancing carefully around what needed to be said, in a way he could stomach, he muttered, "Fine. I…was wrong…in judging you before I'd even met you. Protecting you would have been easier for both of us if I'd set aside my feelings for your father, and groomed you to behave appropriately." There. It wasn't exactly an apology, and it did insinuate that a good deal of the blame belonged to Potter for being such a noxious prat. "Happy?"

Harry grinned again. "Actually, yeah. Thank you."

"I must be going now," said Severus, rising from his seat. "I have business with your godfather." _Time to take back what is mine_.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Welcome back, Severus!" Minerva gave him a bone-crushing hug, though whose bones were crushed was debatable. He thought he heard one or two snaps in her direction. "You're well enough to resume the duties of Headmaster, aren't you?"

"Quite," he answered, wriggling out of her grasp. "Bayly tells me you used the Sorting Hat this year." It was a thinly veiled accusation. Alright, perhaps he had dispensed with the veil entirely. His whole body language shouted his objection.

The witch moved a step away. "Yes, I did. When I was a girl here, we used the Hat. Albus used it. It has always been done! I don't know why you insist on changing that."

"Purebloods have always thought they were better than everyone else," Severus countered, taking a step nearer to close the gap and utilize subtle intimidation. "Yet you want to change that notion, don't you?"

"What has that got to do with it?"

Severus threw up his hands, and Minerva ducked. "Everything! Egads, woman, for being intelligent you can be thick as paste! Purebloods who value their blood status are routinely sorted into Slytherin, where they form alliances which, as we all saw with the Death Eaters, can be a very bad thing. I shouldn't have to mention this, but evidently I must. Slytherins are, and have always been, looked down upon and persecuted by the rest of the Houses. Yes, it is true, and if you'd look past your nose you'd see it! They must stick together, so is it a wonder they form cliques? Being a Slytherin brands a student for life as one likely to become a criminal or miscreant. Don't act like you don't think so, because I can see it in your eyes, Minerva!" Literally. And she knew he could. "While I am Headmaster, I won't have it again."

Minerva pinched her lips into a thin white line. "That is your prerogative."

Severus thought to continue the rant, but it was hopeless. Change would come from the young, not those inculcated into an archaic, silly system. "I shall be taking over seventh year Potions until Aline returns, and of course I'll take Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"It's for the best, I'm sure," Minerva answered, patting her tight hair bun and straightening the glasses perched on her nose. "Mr. Black has had numerous grievances filed, most notably when he hexed several of the students during demonstrations."

She regretted her last sentence the second it spilled from her mouth as the ire visibly rose in Snape's face. "He did _what_? And you kept him on after that?"

"Well, I had no one else," she replied defensively. "I couldn't do it, I have my own classes. Nobody was seriously hurt. I didn't think it was much worse than the criticism I heard about you for years."

"Really, Minerva? You may have received hundreds of complaints—"

"Thousands," she interrupted.

"—about my methods from lazy, slackjawed pea brains, but when did you ever hear of me hexing a student?" Severus crossed his arms and waited. One brow rose, and his foot tapped impatiently.

The witch flushed, tingeing her cheeks pink. "Never," she confessed. "I suppose you'll be wanting to make a visit to Mr. Black."

"I suppose I will. Good day, Minerva." Severus inclined his head and turned his back, purposely creating a dramatic billowing of his robes. Ah, he'd missed that.

He showed up outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, where the seventh years were in session. The door was open and, from the looks of the rearranged room, the shouted spells, and flashes of light, Black had them dueling. He strode in unnoticed, one hand already unhooking his outer robe at the neck; he laid it over a chair as he said, "Perhaps the pupils would benefit from a proper demonstration."

"Professor Snape!" went up a chorus of voices. Was it his imagination, or did they sound _glad_ to see him?

Sirius jerked his head around, stunned. "Sn—Professor Snape." A sly smile crossed his face at the prospect of a real duel. This could be great fun. "Are you volunteering?"

Severus raised his wand, while simultaneously waving the children over to the far wall. "What do you think?" He mounted the steps to the platform at one end, as Sirius scampered up the other side.

Dispensing with niceties, Sirius cast an unspoken spell; Snape deflected it handily. Then all hell broke loose. As fast as curses and jinxes could be thought, they were thrown, blocked, dodged. Bolts of light ricocheted off walls, leaving crumbling pock marks behind. Desks and tables scuttled over the floor with the impact, windows shattered. Between two lightning fast curses, Severus cast a protective spell at the students against the wall; it erected another wall in front of them, low enough to see over, high enough to keep them safe.

The students watched in rapt awe as the men parried hexes while seemingly casting their own at the same time, their arms moving furiously, their intent gazes locked on one another in the eerily silent battle—silent but for the peripheral destruction going on around them.

Focusing all the force he could muster—not a small amount—Severus threw an incredibly powerful stunner that Sirius failed to fully block, and his wand wrenched almost out of his grip. It was all Snape needed. Another hex struck Black in the stomach, buckling him, and a third landed him on his rump, moaning and clutching his abdomen.

Keeping his wand trained on his opponent, Severus walked up and placed the tip against Sirius' temple. He bent into croon, "You're dead. And for the record, Black, no one hexes my students, including teachers." He stood up straight. "Oh, and by the way—you're sacked. Get out."


	28. Life After Death Eater

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 28 (Life After Death Eater)

**September 18, 2000**

Dragomir didn't have a cold. At least, that's the conclusion Draco had come to, judging by the inordinately long time passing with no improvement of symptoms. Of course, not being a dragon master, he honestly could not make the pronouncement one way or the other. Dragons were as different from people as frogs were from sparrows, and he _might_ be sick…or he could have an allergy of some sort…or an irritated sinus. The best thing Draco could do was avoid the fire-blowing sneezes.

"Hey, Malfoy."

Draco turned awkwardly from his position on his knees, arms soaked to the elbows in an enormous tub of soapy warm water where Dragomir purred for him like a giant green cat as the man scrubbed a soft-bristled brush over his scales. It sounded astonishingly like the hum of a well tuned sports car, for lack of a comparison in the wizarding world. "Hey, Weasley."

Charlie gave a strangely Malfoy-esque smirk at the sight before him. If proud Lucius could see his son acting as a scrubwoman, he'd go apoplectic. Maybe he ought to send him an owl with a photo…why was he here again? Oh, right. "I came by to see how things are going with you. Have you been getting much in the way of communication with our scaly friends here?" He reached out to pat Dragomir's head.

"As a matter of fact, I have. The meaning of the pictures becomes more clear to me as time goes by." Draco put down the brush and stood up, prompting the animal to gurgle his displeasure. He picked up the brush in his teeth and shoved it against Draco's hand, before it clattered to the ground. "The same ideas keep coming up with Nugget and Emerald. I haven't yet been granted permission to try Omen or the other three. Anyway, there's an overwhelming sadness in them—it's from being captured and kept in a pen…they mourn their loss of freedom."

"That can't be helped," clipped Charlie. It sounded callous even to his own ears. "Have they come to understand what you're telling them to do when you fly?"

"Yes, they understand very well. In fact, they comprehend speech, though giving them thoughts does help to focus and calm them. But why can't it be helped?" Draco insisted, doggedly returning to his central point. "Dragons aren't used in Britain anymore, not since the Gringotts escape and public pressure to stop using them. Other countries can be persuaded to use goblin magic to secure their vaults like we have."

The redhead rolled his shoulders back and flexed his neck muscles. All of a sudden he felt quite tense. "So you think we should let all the dragons go? That'll go over real well with your comrades here." He pushed ahead over Draco's attempt at a reply. "Even assuming we could compel the world population to let their bank dragons free, we'd still need some to transport goods and passengers that might be harmed by floo or apparition."

"I've thought about that," Draco wedged in while Weasley drew a breath. "Dragomir is different. He's been raised from an egg. He's loyal and devoted to Borimetchka, and he's been around people all his life. He's not as dangerous as wild animals. He doesn't feel the desire to run away, so he doesn't have to be put in a pen or shackled, which is cruelty whether you admit it or not. Why not start raising all dragons you use from eggs?"

"And where are we going to get these eggs?" challenged Charlie. "Mother dragons are notoriously vicious when protecting a nest."

Draco felt a sneer lifting the corner of his mouth. "Potter managed to steal one during the Triwizard Tournament, and he's a barmpot. I'm sure you could figure a way if you tried. As it is, you need to keep putting lives at risk to acquire suitable dragons because some remain untamable, and because they won't mate in captivity. Wild dragons won't, that is…what about those raised from eggs?"

Tempted as he was to tell Malfoy to cram it, the blond prat had a point. Theoretically, it was possible to steal an egg from a nest—only one, lest the mother become completely unhinged and, having no children to attend to, turn fury on the general population. If, as Dragomir demonstrated, the young dragonettes were obedient and relatively safe around humans, it could revolutionize the whole industry. The wild adults could be set free, leaving only docile dragons for the few functions they now served. He hated to admit it, but Draco had hit on a splendid idea, if it worked. And Charlie wouldn't mind having his own special pet dragon, either.

He shrugged noncommittally. "I'll think about it." He wandered off toward the fire, where a gaggle of men had gathered.

Draco picked up the brush. "He'll see I'm right." The creature in the tub made a rumble in the back of his throat, and Draco experienced a sharp vision of Borimetchka vigorously rubbing down his pet with a towel after a hot bath. "Alright, I can take a hint," he smiled.

With his wand, he directed water to flow in an arc, streaming upward and landing on Dragomir's back to rinse off the soap as the dragon shook his body like a wet dog, ear flapping madly, drenching the human.

"Ugh! You are soaked!" Oksana observed from a safe distance of several paces away. "Now Bori has you babysit his brat dragon. Why you put up with it?"

"I like him," answered Draco. He scratched behind the creature's ears, eliciting a throaty gurgle. "He's clever and gentle—"

"Gentle? He burned down my tent two nights ago!"

"I'm sure it was an accident," said Draco. "Why don't you come pet him?"

Oksana crossed her arms. "He doesn't like me." As if to prove her point, Dragomir turned his head her way, his long, reddish-pink tongue protruding. "There! Do you see? He stick his tongue out at me!"

Draco's eyes went to Dragomir, who blinked innocently at him. If he didn't know better, he'd swear the dragon was _smiling_. He sensed no negative impressions. "That's a tad hard to believe."

"I go talk to Borimetchka, tell him to keep that beast away." She spun on her heel right into the burly man, and an involuntary squeak escaped her lips.

"You tell me vhat?" he asked, smiling genially as he so often did. With one great step forward, he leaned down and latched his arms around Dragomir's middle, then hoisted him with ease right out of the tub, to set him lightly on the ground, where he stood dripping. Draco gaped at the sheer power of the man. "Vhat a good boy you are! Tell Draco thank you for care for you."

Dragomir mewled and punched his nose in Malfoy's direction.

"Oksana, you vant talk to me?" He'd begun running a pink beach towel over the dragon's hide.

The young woman stabbed a petulant finger in the dragon's direction. "All Draco's free time is spend with this one. He follows us around. We can not get a moment of peace alone."

"Ees that a problem?" asked Bori, eyebrows raised, his expression eerily similar to Dragomir's innocent look.

"Not for me. I love this little guy," Draco replied.

Oksana threw up her hands and stomped off. Both men watched her for a few seconds, then Bori handed the towel to Draco and started after her, his long strides quickly closing the distance between them.

"Oksana, chakai!" (_Oksana, wait!_) he called.

She stopped, sighed, and turned to him. "Kakvo ima? Pak shte me izpratish da pravya neshto, koeto shte mi otneme edna sedmitsa?" (_What? Are you going to send me off on another_ _week-long errand?_)

"Ne." (_No_.) He approached her, holding what looked like tickets to a movie theatre, if wizards frequented such places. "Iskam da napravya neshto dobro za teb—i za Draco. Vie i dvamata rabotite usardno i iskam da vi pokazha kolko sam vi blagodaren. Ima edin koncert v Sofia. Mozhesh da zavedesh Draco." (_I want to do something nice for you—and for Draco. _ _You_ _both work hard, and I wish to show my appreciation. There is a concert in Sofia. You can take_ _Draco_.)

At a loss, not anticipating anything of this nature, Oksana merely mumbled, "Blagodarya ti." (_Thank you_.) She examined the tickets, which came from a very exclusive wizarding establishment that served only uppercrust clientele. She imagined Draco would fit right in. "Tova veroyatno struva sastoyanie." (_These must have cost a fortune_.)

Borimetchka inclined his head, smiling again. "Siguren sam, che si struva. Prekaraitre si priyatno." (_I'm sure it will be well worth it. Have a good time_.) He strode back to his dragon, whistling a jaunty tune.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_"Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, "you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready…if you are prepared…"_

_ "I am," said Severus, shuddering inwardly at what he knew was to come. The call, the Mark burned into the flesh of his arm, had ignited in an orgy of pain that crescendoed and finally dwindled away, leaving only the black image behind. Two hours had passed since the onset…two hours in which the newly reborn dark lord would presume him too cowardly to return, would brood on his absence as he contemplated ways to make him pay._

_ He must do this. He'd sworn allegiance to Dumbledore and to the defeat of Lord Voldemort once and for all. Gathering his resolve, he stalked from the hospital room and didn't stop walking until he'd reached the boundary of Hogwarts grounds, where he was free to disapparate._

_ Severus apparated into the unkempt front lawn of a large, old manor house on a hill. Even in the dark of night, illuminated only by moon and stars, he saw signs of neglect, age related deterioration unchecked by any occupants. He turned a slow circle, taking in the surroundings. There was a village below, in the valley, and across the way stood a church and cemetery. A chill ran through him; this was where Potter had been brought, where the dark lord had been reborn._

_ His eyes flicked back to the house. It was too quiet; the other Death Eaters must have been sent away. He was alone to face the master, to attempt to convince him of his continued loyalty. Standing out here wasn't going to accomplish that. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he mounted the stairs. He knocked hard on the door, wondering if he should have simply gone inside. The dark lord wasn't likely to act as a doorman._

_ Suddenly the door swung open, but it was not Voldemort, though Snape recoiled slightly nonetheless. "Well, look who's here," rasped Wormtail. "You're—"_

_ Severus shoved him aside with one violent thrust of his arm and marched in, ignoring the rat-man's indignant squeal. "Where is Lord Voldemort?"_

_ His body pivoted to the left of its own accord, to face the ghoulish, cold white face of Lord Voldemort. The red eyes pierced him like arrows as the wand held Snape firmly in place. "Severusss Snape," hissed the dark wizard. "You dare crawl to me now, two hours after I summoned you?"_

_ The Cruciatus that knocked Snape to his knees surprised him, and even as he thrashed screaming on the floor, a piece of his mind mused at his surprise. Merlin's beard, this was Voldemort, not Mary freaking Poppins! What the hell had he expected to happen?_

_ He was nearly unconscious from the pain when the master finally lifted the wand. Voldemort slid across the floor as if his feet barely touched the tile, and he towered over the prone man. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now."_

_ "M-Master," Severus croaked, not attempting to move, as if the agony would have permitted it. Every cell of his body ached and burned, his throat felt swollen and raw. "I—couldn't come. Had to—make Dumbledore think—it was—his idea." He tried to swallow over the lump perched in his throat. "I've information—for you."_

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, the way it always happened. Aline struggled to control her quivering lips, but post-pregnancy hormones were stronger, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks. In a matter of moments, she found herself weeping on Severus' bare chest as he clasped her tenderly in his arms.

"What's wrong, love?" he whispered into her hair.

"Why do you pretend it wasn't so bad working for Voldemort?" she cried. She tried to sit up, but his arms pinned her to him. "You can't lie to me, Severus!"

The tone of the last sentence was more than emphatic, nor was it said in the 'it's-not-right-to-do-so' context; it was a matter of pure fact. Eventually her clairvoyance would stumble upon every memory. What had he been thinking? Yes, he'd told her he hadn't suffered all that much, and yes it was a horrific lie, but he'd done it to protect her. She'd seen him kill Dolohov, she'd seen him witness atrocities, she'd seen…so much it made his heart heavy as a ball of molten lead.

"What did you see?" he asked quietly.

As she calmed down and explained to him, the odd, creeping sensation of déjà vu settled over the bed. He remembered that night well, and not for the torture aspect, for he'd suffered much worse on other occasions. The dark lord had arisen for the second time that night, the reign of terror had begun anew. It wasn't something one easily forgot.

"Why did you become a Death Eater?"

The question hung in the air like a noxious cloud. For some godforsaken reason, Severus had assumed she'd never ask him that—after all, up to now she'd seemed content not to know. Sure, there had been the innuendo-laden conversations, the dancing around the subject; he had merely sidestepped those non-point blank queries with the rationale that if she wanted a straight answer, she'd ask a straight question. Checkmate. She'd asked.

Severus rolled the words around in his mouth, reluctant to spit them out, hesitant to mention Lily. It all seemed so stupid in retrospect. He couldn't even point to something outside himself, like a desire to rule alongside Voldemort, as many others undoubtedly had hoped to do. His motivation had been purely vengeful. "You've been witness to the way the Marauders treated me in school." It was a statement, and Aline nodded. "The love potion Lily gave me…I worshipped her, I wanted her love, and if I couldn't have that, I wanted her respect—or fear. I definitely wanted to make my enemies fear me."

When he received no response, Severus looked down at his wife, whose cheek still rested on his chest. He felt a strange compulsion to address arguments she hadn't brought up, yet he knew lingered in her mind. She wasn't the only one capable of reading a person.

"I was a boy, Aline. A very foolish boy who wouldn't listen to Lucius' warning. Once I'd been Marked, the torture and fear of death at Voldemort's hand kept me there. I couldn't decide I no longer wanted to play."

"I understand that," Aline murmured back. She gave him a fierce hug. "There's something you didn't tell me, though. That in a perverse way, it thrilled you to be a spy against the most powerful dark lord ever to live, to get over on him."

Snape's body shook with silent laughter. "I suppose it did, in the sense of 'Oh-my-God-I-hope-today-isn't-the-day-he-finds-me-out-and-murders-me-in-a-grotesque-and-ignominious-manner' sort of way."

Aline's sweet laughter joined with his, before she became somber again. "There's more…something you've been holding back from me. I feel it, but I can't make sense of it. Something to do with Tom Riddle. Don't you trust me?"

"What kind of a question is that?" Severus exclaimed, sounding wounded. "You just read my bleeding memories, and you ask if I trust you?"

"Honey, you know what I mean." Aline raised her head to look at him. "This is a sensitive topic because it's still so fresh."

_Fresher than you think_. He knew exactly what she meant, and that knowledge irritated him like a grain of sand in an oyster, only he hadn't the option of forming a coating round it. They'd already established that he couldn't lie to her, and she wasn't going to give up. Or if she gave up, it would come back to haunt him another day. He may as well spill it, embarrassment be damned. "You're right, there is something. I've avoided speaking of it because I'm afraid. Are you happy?"

"Why would I be happy about that?" she demanded, blinking back her dismay. Severus was not one to admit trepidation, not out loud. "What do you fear? He controlled you, but he's gone now. He invaded your brain like…like I do, or you during Legilimency."

"You're wrong," he said stiffly. Even his body tensed in response to the subject. "This is not like clairvoyance or Legilimency. For months, Tom Riddle and I were one. I know him almost as well as I know myself. Aline, I feel _pity_ for him! The most malevolent, vile dark lord to walk the Earth, and I feel _sorry_ for him! Yes, he was wicked by nature, yet I find myself dwelling on the few human sparks he exhibited, which were crushed by those around him. It's insane to pity him—how could I not be afraid that he's still in there?"

She reached up to stroke his face; a short stubble like sandpaper scraped her fingers. "He's not, he's only in your memories. You're a good man with a good heart; you came to see Tom in a way no one ever had. There's nothing wrong with feeling empathy for another."

Severus snorted. His lip curled into a sneer at the preposterous notion. "I don't empathize."

"Really? When your sons cry and you don't know what ails them, does it make your heart ache? Don't you want to fix what's wrong?"

"Of course I do. They're my children. I love them."

"You don't have to love someone to feel badly for them." She kissed his pouting lips. "All your life you've suppressed your gentle side. You've shown the world how nasty and mean you can be in order to protect your own feelings—or your life, as the case may be. You've shown me and a select few who you really are, what a nice person you can be. I think Tom forced you to show _yourself_ who you are."

"You're demented, woman," he replied dryly. "That's a crock. Have you been reading those muggle psychiatry magazines again? Perhaps you ought to try analyzing why you believe such rubbish. For the record, I am not, nor have I ever been, _nice_." He spat the word out like it was poison on his tongue. "Nor am I personable, charismatic, forgiving—"

"Okay, okay," Aline laughed, smacking his chest with the palm of her hand. "You're purely a snarky bastard. Sorry!"

"And don't you forget it," he grumped.

They settled into a few minutes of silent snuggling before Aline chirped out of the blue, "Who's Mary Poppins?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Gloria, would you like some broccoli?" asked Livonia, handing the bowl of steaming vegetables across the table to her daughter-in-law.

"Thank you." Gloria took the proffered bowl, scooped a few green clumps onto her plate, and passed it over to Bayly. She had to nudge his elbow to get his attention, for he was deep into glaring at the other guest at the table: Jorab Goodman. "Bayly, dear, you're being very quiet."

Bayly broke off his glower long enough to address his mother. "So, Mum, when did you say you met Mr. Goodman?"

"Exactly a month ago," Livonia said, smiling at Jorab, who squeezed her hand under the table. "This is our one month anniversary, though it feels like I've known him for ages."

"I agree," said Jorab, ignoring the boy's hostile stare and smiling back at Livonia. "Your mum thought this would be a good time to tell you we're dating exclusively."

"Funny," Bayly muttered, "I don't recall Goodman mentioning that he met you. Seems like it might have come up when we spent hours guarding Professor Snape."

Gloria cast a sidelong glance at her husband. He looked extremely unhappy about the situation, which was understandable. All his life, his mother had doted on him, and only when Dolohov had escaped from prison had he shared the woman with another man…and that whole scenario had played out very badly. Gloria laid a comforting hand on his thigh. "So how did you meet?"

The older couple looked at one another and chuckled. "Bayly's Uncle Romulus, my brother, set me up on a date. The Malfoys set up Jorab the same night, and we met in the restaurant loo, trying to hide. We escaped together, and we've been together ever since."

"That's sweet," said Gloria. When Bayly said nothing, she pinched his leg.

It elicited a stifled growl, though he did manage to choke out in what he intended as a polite tone, "How come neither of you bothered to tell me?"

"I don't tell you every time I go out with a gentleman," Livonia said. It could have passed for scolding. "I thought you'd be glad for me that I found a man I care about. I thought you wanted me to be happy."

"I do, Mum," he answered sincerely, abashedly ducking his head. "I'm just…surprised."

He shoved a forkful of pork chop into his mouth in order to avoid saying anything he'd later be forced to apologize for. He'd seen Jorab at the old castle more than once, and the man hadn't so much as hinted he'd met, let alone was dating, Bayly's mother. He didn't like this, not one little bit. Did his mum know she was cozying up to an ex-Death Eater? And if she knew, it didn't appear to bother her…then again, Daddy Dearest had been one of the more rabid, unstable Death Eaters, and she'd loved him for some unfathomable reason. She was, to be quite blunt, not the most adept at choosing a man. What in bloody hell was Goodman up to?

To his astonishment, Jorab piped up with, "I should tell you, Liv, that Bayly and I didn't get off to a roaring start. I said I knew him, but I admit I glossed over our first meeting. It was at Hogwarts, and Narcissa Malfoy had been thrown through the Veil by goblins. Everyone even remotely friendly with Malfoy was frantically trying to find a way to save her before Lucius got himself killed jumping into the Veil after her…"

_At Hogwarts, at the library table where dozens of old, dusty books from the Reference section sat in piles, Snape stood up and brushed down his robe. His deputy Headmistress had brought in two unexpected guests. "Thank you, Minerva, it's entirely alright. Wendolph, Jorab, why don't you come in."_

_ Minerva nodded before shutting the door to be on her way. The instant her tightly bunned head disappeared from the entrance, Severus had his wand out, casting a silencing spell around the area. "What are you doing here?" he growled._

_ "Well, hello to you, too," responded Rab, ambling over to pull out a chair and seat himself._

_ "Don't get your knickers in a twist, we're not here to make trouble," Dolph assured him with a grin that looked too devilish not to mean trouble. He followed his brother to the sturdy oak table laden with heavy volumes. __Dead, Undead, and In-between__; __Life After Death__; __Spells to Prolong Life__; __Dark Secrets of Hades__._

_ "I don't make a practice of entertaining ex-Death Eaters at Hogwarts," retorted Severus. "Unless you've got news or come to help, I suggest you leave me to my study."_

_ "That is precisely the crux of the matter," said Dolph, smirking to himself. He actually sounded like Snape! "We need your help in order to assist you. As you know, the dark lord had a room below the old castle where he kept loads of books and artifacts and—who knows what? I was never permitted in there, but my wife told me about it."_

_"A reliable source," grumbled Severus, easing back into his chair. "Is there a point to this, or you merely enjoy regaling me with tales of that harpy who did her utmost to make my life a living nightmare?"_

_ Dolph sighed heavily. "She wasn't that bad, I don't know why everyone picks on her. I mean, she had her moments, and she came close to murdering me a few times, but what wife doesn't?"_

_ The silence was deafening. No one wanted to touch that._

_ Tossing his head as if he'd made his point, Dolph went on, leaning in and lowering his voice in the event anyone was listening. "Anyway, Voldemort powerfully warded the room, I've only broken one barrier. Here's the thing: you were sent with Travers the night his group killed that McKinnon family, right?" He needed no affirmation, he knew it to be true before Snape's features hardened, his eyes glinting with malice. "Did you hear the ward-breakers he used?"_

_ Severus swallowed in his suddenly dry throat and nodded silently, then said, "I don't remember them after all these years. I'll have to—"_

_ "—use the pensieve," all three men said together._

_ "We'll wait here and see if we can find anything in these books," offered Dolph. He slid into a chair and lifted a volume from the stack, adding with another mischievous grin, "Try not to dawdle."_

_ "I'll try not to put my foot up your arse," Severus returned, glowering down his prominent nose at the pair. Heaving himself from his seat, he headed for the exit, purposely billowing his robe furiously._

_ Rabby reclined back in his chair, kicked his feet up onto the table, and sighed. "I wanted to do this for seven years when I attended school, but that creepy librarian used to watch me like a hawk hovering over a defenseless sheep."_

_ "I don't think she was watching you. That was her lazy eye." Dolph flipped open one of the books and started to read._

_ When the door swung open a few minutes later, the brothers naturally expected Snape to come snarling in. The blond boy in question resembled Snape in no way, shape, or form. From force of habit their wands instantly appeared in their hands, Rabby dropped his feet onto the floor and stood up, and Dolph twisted around for a good shot._

_ Bayly stopped in his tracks, a gasp catching in his throat, his hands slowly raising above his head. No one was supposed to be in here except Snape! He glanced frantically about the room. "I—where's Professor Snape? If you did something to him—"_

_ "You'll what, little boy?" taunted Dolph in a smooth voice. He pushed back his chair to get up. "What are you doing in here? Who are you?"_

_ "Bayly Young. I'm Snape's apprentice, I came to help him with his research." His eyes desperately sought not only refuge, but a place where the professor might be. He briefly considered popping his wand into his hand to fight back, but with no cover to duck behind he'd be blasted to smithereens by two spells before he could twitch. And yet, if his mentor needed him, he had to do something. He edged toward the nearest bookshelf._

_ The thinner, more tense looking of the two men repeated, "Bayly Young? Dolph, isn't that the kid Malfoy took under his wing?" Already he'd lowered his wand and returned to his seat. "Leave him alone."_

_ "You're Dolohov's kid!" Dolph blurted incredulously, completely forgetting he held the youth virtual hostage by the wand dangling lazily in his fingers, pointed at the lad. He moved in closer for a better look, curiously studying the boy. "I never would've thought that sick bastard could manage to get a woman to mate with him. You don't favour him at all."_

"…and that's pretty much it. As you can imagine, it probably didn't give Bayly any warm fuzzies toward us," Jorab finished.

Bayly's animosity had been replaced with a cold seizing in his gut. Mum knew about Goodman the Death Eater! She hadn't flinched or blinked at the mention of it! How could she not care about something so important after everything Dolohov had done?

"There's no hard feelings over that, right?" Jorab was saying to him.

The young man shook his head, which seemed inordinately heavy for his neck at the moment. "No, it's fine." His voice came our wooden and distant. "Excuse me. I need to get some air."

He pushed back his chair and bolted for the door. He stood on the front porch, leaning on the rail and gulping the chilly breeze. A voice behind him startled him, making him jump and whirl around. It was Jorab, standing with legs apart, arms crossed.

"Why are you acting like this, Bayly? What've I done to you?"

The expression on Bayly's face was more telling than he knew, a wide-eyed, haunted mien that Rabby had seen in the mirror far too often in his youth. Unless he was wildly misreading the situation, the kid was having flashbacks about his old man, and possibly equating Jorab to him. His manner softened toward the boy.

"Your mum and I wanted this to be a pleasant night. I didn't realize how much you dislike me," he murmured.

"I don't," Bayly said in all earnestness. "I barely know you at all. I just wonder about your motives, and I worry about Mum."

"My motives?" Jorab's dark brows went up, and he looked truly baffled. "I care for Liv, we get on really well. I want a normal life; is that so wrong?"

By now Bayly had got hold of himself and shoved down the panic that surfaced every so often when he remembered his father. His fingers desperately itched to hold his wand. "No… but you were a Death Eater. For all I know, you may have been one of Voldemort's worst," he uttered.

Rabby hesitated, eyeing the kid blankly. The boy didn't have a clue how right he was! If he was aware that the wizard standing before him had been formerly known as Rabastan Lestrange, convicted torturer and murderer, he'd be terrified to allow him near Liv. Hell, he'd be terrified, period—with good reason.

At last he said, "I could tell you that I'm not that sort of person, but you wouldn't believe me if I did. Dolohov, your dad, he was that sort till the day he died. I know what he did to you, I know it f—ks with your mind. But I'm not him."

"How would you know what it does to my mind?" Bayly snapped.

Another pause, then words so low Bayly had to strain to hear them. "Because you're not the only one who had a f—khead for a father." He turned to take hold of the doorknob. "Come back in. Can't you at least pretend for an hour, for your mother's sake?"

Bayly nodded and took a step forward, only to push shut the door the other man had opened. "I'm warning you, Jorab. You'd better not hurt my mum."

"I'm not one for dalliances," Rabby responded tightly, not appreciating the threat from this little punk. In a duel, he could wipe the floor with this kid, and that with minimal effort. If he were still the old Rabastan, he'd have done so already. "I'm not going to hurt her."

"That's not what I meant, but you'd better not do that, either," said Bayly.

Jorab rolled his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind. Shall we?" He opened the door again, and the two returned to their waiting ladies.


	29. My Brother's Keeper

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 29 (My Brother's Keeper)

**September 12, 1973**

Voldemort had used Legilimency on Bella more than once, not that the wench objected. It thrilled her to have him inside her mind, among other places. While there, he'd seen her husband Rodolphus on occasion, yet to meet him in person felt wholly different. Not in a good way.

Before the dark lord stood Rodolphus, clean shaven, his long dark hair curling at the collar, hands in his pockets, casually shifting his weight onto one leg. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was in the presence of the greatest dark wizard ever to live, which irked Voldemort more than a little. Damn it all, the man looked downright _bored_.

Well, that just wouldn't do, would it? Lord Voldemort advanced on him slowly, studying him, searing him with a singularly hateful glower that made Lestrange swallow and stiffen his spine. It did Voldemort's heart good. Apparently Bellatrix had regaled her husband with the exploits of her master, and he was beginning to experience the appropriate deference.

"Rodolphussss," he hissed, circling the fellow like a vulture, "Bellatrix tells me you embrace our goal of dominating muggles."

"Yes, I do," answered Lestrange haltingly, no longer able to pull off a nonchalant stance. He glanced at Bella, whose gaze was lovingly locked on her master. "They're vermin who need to be eliminated."

"And you're willing to do it?" goaded Voldemort. "Have you ever killed a muggle?"

Strangely awkward pause. "No, sir," admitted Lestrange.

"Why are you here?" Voldemort's voice had hardened as his glare continued to pierce Lestrange's soul.

In an uncharacteristically bare squeak, Rodolphus replied, "I want to join you, join your group. I want to get rid of muggles and mudbloods—"

"Spare me!" barked Voldemort, and Rodolphus fell silent. The dark wizard fixed his red eyes on the young man's, enjoying the panicked vibes emanating from him. It was like honey on his tongue, the sweet taste of fear. And because Rodolphus was afraid, like so many others the dark lord had read, the first images to surface for his viewing pleasure involved instances in Lestrange's life when he'd felt similar emotion.

One he found of particular interest swam into the front of Rodolphus' mind, and the dark lord latched upon it. There was Claudius, his old school companion and loyal disciple…recently deceased in a freak accident while drunk. Pity. In the coming war, Claudius' skills would have come in handy.

He probed deeper into the memory…Rodolphus was a boy of fourteen. There was another boy—by the looks of him, a brother—about twelve years of age. Yes, the name surfaced: Rabastan. They had their wands out, and at first Voldemort thought they might be dueling, but no…

_ "__Reparo__," said Rodolphus, pointing at a shattered glass bauble on the floor of what appeared to be a study. The article had apparently fallen off of the large, heavy mahogany desk littered with papers and quills, with an overturned bottle of black ink oozing over them. Voluminous black velvet drapes over the windows blocked most of the light, making the room dim and rather gloomy. An ancient tapestry over the marble fireplace trumpeted the Lestrange family crest. The place might have felt cozy were it not for the lack of light and the reek of Dark Magic coming from the broken object on the wooden floor._

_ The spell hadn't worked. Rodolphus aimed his wand again and fairly shouted, "__Reparo!__" Nothing. He lifted his face to the younger lad, his eyes filling with dread. "It's not working. We can't wait for Uncle Varden to get home, we have to tell Dad."_

_ "No!" the other boy howled, starting to tremble. "I didn't mean to do it, Dolph. It rolled off the desk, it just fell, but he won't care—" His voice cut off in a choked sob._

_ "You shouldn't have been in here, stupid!" Rodolphus bellowed back, sending his brother into hysterical weeping as he bolted from the room. Feeling a pang of remorse, he ran after the lad, grabbed his arm, and twirled him around. The utter despair mingled with tears that greeted him made his stomach clench. "Rabby, I'm sorry. Go to your room and stay there. I'll tell Dad…I'll say I did it."_

_ Rabastan's eyes grew wide. "You can't! He'll beat you! You know what he said he'd do if he caught one of us in there."_

_ Dolph took a long, resolute breath, and nodded. "I know. But…" This wasn't one of the trivial infractions Rabby was often punished for; this constituted a major transgression. They'd been forbidden to enter the study, the place where most of the Dark items were housed. That, combined with the fact that Rabby was not a favoured son, made the decision uncomplicated, if unpalatable. The overriding thought in his mind was that their father could well kill Rabastan, or at the very least whip him to a bloody pulp. He couldn't stand by and let it happen, not to his baby brother. "He'll not be too harsh with me. I'll be alright."_

_ Rabastan hesitated, obviously hating to let his brother take the blame in his stead, yet fully aware that if the truth came out, he wouldn't be walking away when his father was through with him. "I'm sorry, Dolph," he whispered. "I just wanted to get some ink."_

_ Rodolphus forced a lopsided grin. "It doesn't matter. Now go."_

_ He turned and strode purposefully down the hall in the opposite direction, looking back once to assure himself that Rabby had gone. He found his parents in the sitting room, drinking wine and making small talk; he stood in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged._

_ "Roddy, what is it?" asked his mother._

_ "I need to talk to Dad," he answered in a controlled, low voice. "I had an accident…in his study. It fell—"_

_ At the mention of 'study', Claudius leaped from his chair. By the time 'It fell' had escaped his lips, Claudius was dashing for the door. He pushed past his son in his rush down the hall. A string of roared profanities reverberated through the house upon his discovery of the destroyed item, and a few minutes later he came stomping back, where his boy waited stoically for him._

_ "Claudius, what's the problem?" said his wife. She seemed astonishingly unconcerned and unruffled, despite his evident fury._

_ The man replied to her while glaring at his son. "Roddy smashed one of my rare artifacts. I had to clean up the Dark Magic before it spread over the house. If he hadn't told us right away, we may have all been poisoned by morning."_

_ "You're not supposed to be in your father's study," the witch murmured, taking another swig from her goblet. No wonder she was unconcerned, she was half crocked! _

_ Claudius turned his full attention to his progeny, shouting, "Do you understand how dangerous that globe was? __Do you__? If you'd stayed in there more than a few minutes, you'd be dead! It could have killed you!"_

_ Rodolphus didn't bother to protest or argue, which would only have infuriated the man even more. He dropped his head and let his father vent his anger, and when Claudius gripped his arm to drag him to his bedroom, he went along quietly. He meekly accepted the vicious blows of the belt rained on his backside, making his tears wash down his cheeks. After his father left the room, he crawled up onto the bed, face down, and lay there for a long time. Rare were the occasions when he was the recipient of a beating, but it didn't matter. Rabby had been spared; nothing else mattered._

Voldemort rifled through Rodolphus' memories for several more minutes, before hissing into his ear, "You tell me what you think I want to hear. Am I a fool? Can I not wander through your feeble mind at my leisure? You wish more than anything to spend more time with your wife, and being here serves that purpose. Yet you dare lie to me!"

For a long moment, Rodolphus did nothing more than gulp and gape. It unnerved him how easily the dark lord read his thoughts. "But—but it's true. I do hate muggles!"

Voldemort smiled—that is, he curled his almost non-existent lips upward into a mocking caricature of a smile. "Prove it. Take Bellatrix along as a witness. Kill a muggle for me, and then we'll talk." He turned on his heel and walked to a nearby armchair, waving his hand imperiously to send them away.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**September 19, 2000**

_Sept. 13, 1973_

_ A new member has entered the fold today: Rodolphus Lestrange, husband to Bellatrix. He has Claudius in him, certainly. He is skilled in the Dark Arts, and despises muggles as much as anyone I've met, perhaps more than most. His great weakness, his love of his younger brother, is something I may be able to exploit in the future._

_ He will do whatever it takes to accomplish his goal, which is an admirable asset. To prove himself to me, yesterday he took Bellatrix with him in search of a muggle to murder. He found one in a dirty, stinking alley, for they came back smelling of vomit and rubbish. Bellatrix tells me he didn't flinch in his duty, he made short work of the muggle. I like that attitude in my minions. I suspect those like Malfoy will never attain the ability to kill wantonly…more's the pity._

Severus set down the diary on his desk. He was well aware of Claudius Lestrange's behaviour toward his sons—Roddy had been the pampered prince, Rabby the whipping boy. Never having known Dolph to be selfless, it truly surprised Severus to witness Dolph sacrifice himself, yet at the same time he recognized how natural the action was. Wouldn't Severus have done the same for his own brother or sister? Why then should it be any different for Dolph, who made no secret of the love he bore for his brother? Rab was probably the only person on Earth that Dolph held in such high regard.

He leaned back in his chair, lost in thought. Had Voldemort demanded Rodolphus kill a muggle _because of_ what he'd done for Rabastan? A perverse act of atonement, so to speak, to negate the good in him? As pathetic and warped as it sounded, he wouldn't put it past the dark lord.

"Are you almost ready?" Aline appeared in the doorway, carrying one infant in her arm, the other in a sling across her chest.

Getting up and hurrying to her, Severus lifted the tot out of her arms to cradle him lovingly to his chest. "Darling, when you need help, you need only say the word."

"You were busy," she said simply. Caring for two tiny babies by herself while her husband read the diaries was a small price to pay to bring him one step closer to complete healing. She bent down to coo at Aidan, "And my babies are such good little angels, aren't they?" He gifted her with a big, toothless smile.

Severus smiled as he watched her interact with their son; he loved to watch Aline with the boys. God in heaven, he loved them all so much! His hand slid around her waist. "I'm ready. We'd better go before I decide to ravish you."

"Dr. Livingston said I have to wait at least four weeks," she replied, cocking her head to look up at him, her brown eyes twinkling. "Try to control yourself."

"Yes, that's always been my fatal flaw—my lack of self-control," he answered dryly. "He didn't say anything about snogging you silly." Pushing against her lower back, he guided her to the fireplace, draped his cloak over Adriel to keep the soot away, and stepped in. "See you on the other side."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

He just had to stir up the pot, didn't he? Rabby had come home earlier than expected from his date with Livonia, and had stomped right to his room to brood. (His younger brother had always been a brooder, unlike himself, who let most things roll off his back.) Dolph should have let it go when Rab was crabbing around the kitchen the next morning, but did he? Of course not! He just _had_ to stick his sarcastic comment in there and blow open Rab's veil of self-restraint.

He absently stroked at the small mustache he'd grown shortly after his face-altering surgery. "Whatsa matter, Rab, didn't you get any last night?"

It was an innocent enough jibe, from Dolph's perspective, so why Rabby got all bent out of shape was a mystery. Hardly deserving of the retort that he ought to perform unnatural—and frankly impossible—acts upon himself…or perhaps his mother…or both. Anyway, the reaction seemed strangely vitriolic, considering Rabby was quite familiar with his brother's sense of humour.

Dolph wandered down the short hall to Jorab's bedroom. The door was closed; he'd known that before he got here, for the slamming of it resounded through the house. Was it wise to pry open the subject, the reason for Rabby's tantrum, and pick at it like cold, dried spaghetti stuck to a plate? Probably not, but that wasn't going to stop him.

"Rabby, quit acting like a pissant!" he called through the door. "Open up." A thud of something heavy striking the door made him start, but he held his ground. "I've got my wand to your cat's head. If you don't open the door, Firebolt gets it."

A second later, the door was wrenched almost off its hinges by a spell, and Jorab marched up to face his brother, his wand twirling ominously in his fingers. "Sadistic much? Firebolt is sleeping on my bed, you dumb shit. Is that the best you could do?"

"I've been called worse. And it worked, didn't it?" Dolph replied, grinning as he shoved his way into the room. Sure enough, the orange feline was curled beside the pillow; it opened one eye sleepily at the intrusion, recognized the other human, and promptly went back to its slumber.

Jorab heaved a sigh and followed his brother in. He sat on the foot of the bed while Dolph took the armchair next to the window. "If you're gonna be a pain in the arse, don't bother. I'm really not in the mood."

"Sorry. That effervescent greeting earlier had me fooled," Dolph responded drolly. "What happened last night?"

"It was supposed to be the night Liv and I…you know…for the first time—"

"You haven't been shagging her?" Dolph interrupted, his countenance bearing signs of incredulity.

"I'm not _you_, I don't bonk every woman who smiles at me," retorted the other. "As I was saying, we'd planned to, but that little wanker son of hers got upset about me dating her. After he left, she says—get this—we ought to slow things down! Bloody hell, how much slower can we go?"

"Not too much," agreed the elder .

"_And_," Rab continued, now that he'd got his blood up and was on a roll, "the bastard actually threatened me! Can you believe that?"

To be honest, it wasn't exactly easy to believe. Bayly was a reserved, albeit good-natured kid, as far as Dolph knew…then again, he had that protective streak in him. And the one he'd likely feel the need to protect would be his mother. Dolph could hardly fault him for that. In a mocking laugh, he said, "Are you scared of the wee boy?"

Rab scowled back at him, not deigning to dignify such a ridiculous question with an answer. "What the f—k is his problem? He warns me not to hurt his mum, as if I would."

Dolph shrugged and leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers over his stomach. "From his standpoint, you're horning in on his mum, and he doesn't know jack shit about you."

"Except that I was a Death Eater," mumbled Rabby.

"Oh, goody. The one thing he knows, he can use against you."

Jorab's eyes narrowed as his hand unconsciously stroked the purring kitty. "I'd stake my life Bayly was a Death Eater, too. Any son of Dolohov's is going to be Marked! Snape had no problem talking to him about the old castle and its hidden room—and Malfoy wouldn't have included him in guarding Snape with all of us around unless he already knew about the castle and what we were."

"True," said Dolph, nodding slowly. Malfoy wasn't one to divulge information on a whim, nor was Snape. That had to be solid reasoning behind it. "But he's too young—I mean, he couldn't have been more than seventeen when Voldemort fell. If he was Marked, it couldn't have been for very long. Besides, I think it's safe to say if he became one of us, it wasn't willingly. He's too nice."

"You're taking his side now?"

"I'm not taking any side!" Dolph snapped. "Maybe instead of pouting in here, you should be thinking of ways to make Bayly like you and trust you."

"You mean like the Imperius?"

"Oh, my God, you're turning into Marshal!" exclaimed Dolph, shaking his head in exasperation. "By all means, use the Imperius—if you want to seriously piss off Snape and Malfoy. Sure, you can hold your own with Lucius, but Snape would make cat food out of you."

Rabby fixed him with a withering glare, his cropped dark hair, dark eyes, and strong jawline forming a near mirror to his brother's. "I wouldn't do it! You're the one—oh, never mind."

He slumped back against the wall, his feet extended over the edge of the bed. How was he supposed to make Bayly like him? He didn't know how to make friends; his friends had typically been Dolph's comrades or other Death Eaters, which didn't necessarily qualify. He'd never been outgoing, nor ever been really close to anyone—only Dolph. And now Liv. He felt for her like he'd never felt for a witch in his life; they could talk about anything, it seemed like they'd known each other forever. If he didn't do something to change the dynamics in this relationship with Bayly, he might end up losing Livonia, and he didn't think he could cope with that.

"Oh, great guru, what do you suggest?"

Dolph sat up straight, smiling. "I'm glad you asked…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The playroom of Malfoy Manor, like everything else in the place, was a model of exquisite design and over-the-top functionality. Not only did the room encompass a space large enough to house…well, a full-sized ordinary house, it incorporated fantastic elements found only in the most lavish of domiciles—like the forest, for example. Not a _real_ forest in the sense of being _outside_, but real in the sense of actual dwarf trees and plants grown in soil, watered by elves, and nourished by sunshine coming through the thick, glass ceiling.

In another quarter of the room, situated near the forest, was a village of child-size dwellings around the nucleus, a miniature castle. True, the castle was only large enough for three or four occupants at a time to play in, but it had a drawbridge and two tall turrets. The rest of the space consisted of a huge, empty play area for whatever games the children could devise, with loaded bookshelves, toy boxes full of balls and play swords and dolls and all sort of delightful things. All in all, it was a child's dream room.

Ladon weighed the green rubber ball in his hands; it wasn't heavy, though his arms couldn't fully encircle it. "Khala!" he called.

The nine-month-old girl crawled over to him, grinning excitedly.

"Catch," he said. "Sit."

Unaware that her brother, for lack of an adult vocabulary, was speaking to her like a dog, the baby obediently flopped back on her nappied bum and thrust out her stubby arms. Ladon lobbed the ball at her. It struck the top of her head and bounced off, knocking her onto her back. The boy erupted into a belly laugh, and Khala joined in, rolling on the floor and giggling.

"Babies needs play nice," Cinchona warned the children. She trotted across the floor to pick up the ball, which she held out to Ladon. "Master Ladon plays nice with Miss Khala, yes?"

Ladon patted Cinchona's head in an imitation of the way Fa'er did, but using his flat palm with the awkwardness of a twenty-month-old child. It looked particularly silly since the elf was a mere two inches taller than he was. "Cinchy good elf. Ladon good boy." He snatched the ball and tossed it at his sister again. It smacked her full in the face, sending her toppling onto her back again, only this time she began to wail.

Ladon looked on, wide-eyed, as Cinchona helped the girl to a sitting position. His grey eyes grew to enormous proportions at the sight of blood trickling from the girl's nose. The elf wiped at it with a dry cloth she'd pulled from a pocket of her tea towel.

"Naughty Master Ladon," she scolded. A flick of her finger sent the ball hovering near the ceiling. "Cinchona gets water. Master and Miss must behaves!" The elf scampered into the adjacent bathroom to wet her cloth, as Khala continued to scream.

Ladon watched the elf, his little lips puckering into a pout. Daft, mean elf took his toy! Mama and Fa'er would hear of this! Well, he certainly wasn't going to hang around here where meanie-elf was. He took off at a run to the other side of the room, into the mini-village. He hid behind the hut closest to the wall, and peeked round the side.

Cinchona dabbed the cloth at Khala's nose as the tot wriggled and flailed and sputtered. From his hiding place, Ladon eyed his sister, and a bad feeling came into his tummy. Did he do something bad? He didn't intend to, he was a good big boy, like Fa'er said. What if Fa'er got mad? What if Fa'er didn't want to hug him or play with him anymore? His lips started to tremble.

"Master Ladon!" Cinchona squeaked. Lifting herself onto tiptoes, she scanned the room for the lad.

Ladon crept backward on hands and knees. No, he wouldn't go out there to Cinchy so she could be a poopie-head to him. He'd live here in the tiny houses till Mama and Fa'er came to get him. As he groused to himself, he continued to crawl backward, not noticing when his foot went directly into the wall, then the other, his rump, and finally the rest of him.

"Master Ladon!" the elf bellowed, looking desperate.

Fine, let her look. He was good at hiding, he snickered to himself. The elf rounded the room, lugging Khala in her arms. She peered through the forest, and bent down to scrutinize inside each of the houses of the village. By the time she'd searched the castle, she was positively hysterical.

Ladon observed her with a mixture of angst and amusement. He thought it very clever of himself to hide here, where she couldn't find him, though when she scampered around the hut and right in front of him, and then right _past_ him, he almost wet himself. How did she not see him? He had no more houses to block her view!

"Sisidy! Sisidy!" screeched the elf. A second later, the older elf popped in, and Cinchona threw herself toward her companion. "Master Ladon not is being here!" she howled. "Cinchona loses Master Ladon!"

The two chattered animatedly for a few moments, then Cinchona thrust Khala into Sisidy's arms and disapparated. Ladon sat back and crossed his arms, feeling very self-satisfied. He'd got rid of the rude one. Something caught his eye and he turned his head. Okay, this was different.

He got to his feet and turned a slow circle, gazing about the room in awe. Where was he? He'd never seen this room before. Wasn't it just like Cinchy to keep a whole new world of fun away from him? The walls were painted a muted sage green, though a multi-coloured tapestry hung on the far wall, and thick beige rugs covered the floor. He toddled further into the room, easily the size of Mama's bedroom, except there was no bed. One whole wall was lined with sturdy oak cabinets, and one corner held a table surrounded by fat, stuffed chairs Fa'er liked to sit in.

What fun were cabinets if you didn't open them? His tiny hand wrapped around the wood at the side of the first door and he pulled it open. Odd. Methodically he pulled out every item, one by one, and left them in a heap on the floor. Blankets, sheets, pillows. The next cabinet yielded something only a bit more interesting; in a matter of seconds, twelve towels, a stack of washcloths, and numerous bars of soap formed a second pile.

If this was the big people's idea of enjoyment, he didn't get it. Bathing and sleeping had their useful points—like after a potty accident—but they hardly ranked high on the list of exciting things to do. He nibbled at the edge of one bar of soap, and promptly spit it out. No, not yummy at all.

The third cupboard offered a treat that made him squeal: toys. Loads of dolls and play wagons and animals…oh, so many things! Maybe Mama and Fa'er were saving them to play by themselves; that didn't seem very _sharing._ They liked to harp to Ladon that he had to _share_ with his sister. He hauled the contents out onto the rug, then dug through a large wooden box to pick out a set of knights and dragons, which he set up around himself.

Downstairs in the main sitting room, Narcissa and Lucius were cuddling the Snape twins and cooing at their soon-to-be godsons while Aline and Severus looked on with pride. Adriel had a fist clenched in Lucius' mane and was babbling something.

"They are inordinately intelligent," Severus drawled.

"And you know this _how_?" asked Lucius, pale blond eyebrows raised, and his fingers trying to pry the infant's claws out of his tangled hair.

"Because they're mine," replied Severus, smirking. He squeezed his wife's leg. "And Aline's. She is quite clever herself. And because he already wants to yank those luscious locks out, and he barely knows you." His smirk widened.

"Dear, we shouldn't insult the future godfather," said Aline, shaking her head and smiling. She had to admit, though, Aidan and Adriel were the smartest, most beautiful babies in the world, as anyone except another proud parent would attest.

"Our darlings are in the playroom," said Narcissa. "Have you seen it, Aline? When your boys get older, all four of our children can play together. They'll have so much fun!"

Severus nodded in agreement. "It's unlike any area I ever had, I can assure you. Perhaps we ought to expand the room in our house—"

"M-Mistress Malfoy! Master Malfoy!" shrieked Cinchona, panting and looking fit to faint. "Cinchona not finding Master Ladon! Cinchona looks all over Malfoy house."

"WHAT?" bellowed Lucius, which startled Adriel and made him cry. "You can't find my son?" He was on his feet in an instant, and the elf cringed.

"What do you mean you can't find him?" Narcissa shrieked back, and Aidan's howls rose with his brother's. "Lucius?"

Lucius stalked over, handed the baby to Aline, and addressed the elf through gritted teeth, "How could you lose my son? _Explain!_"

"We was in playroom," Cinchona sobbed, falling to the floor to bang her head between words. "Master Ladon hits Miss Khala and she bleeding. I looks away, and Master Ladon is gone. Cinchona searches whole house!"

Narcissa, too, had got up and passed Aidan to his father. Although her stomach clenched in fear, her face was surprisingly unpanicked. "Lucius, do you think…" She didn't finish, for he'd taken her hand and disapparated.

They apparated to the playroom, where Sisidy met them with a plaintive wail. She still held Khala tightly in her arms, though the child was heavy and squirming to be let down. "Master, Mistress," she bawled.

Lucius and Narcissa rushed past the elf, Narcissa plucking Khala from her arms as she went. They headed directly to the back corner of the room, behind the last miniature house. Casting one last sidelong glance at each other, they stepped together through the wall into the hidden room.

Ladon lifted his head and squealed with delight. "Mama! Fa'er! Look—toys!" He clutched a dragon in one hand, its wings flapping quietly.

Exhaling a huge sigh of relief, the adults sidestepped the messes their son had made to get to him. Lucius hoisted the boy into his arms for a tremendous hug and kiss on the cheek. "I see you've found the secret room. Naughty boy."

"No, I _good_ boy," Ladon countered, thrusting out his lower lip.

"Yes, you're my good big boy," Lucius agreed, snuggling him tightly. "Come along, we must leave here."

So saying, he and Narcissa carried the children out, to the obvious relief of both house elves, who threw themselves sobbing with joy onto the floor. Lucius removed his wand from the breast pocket of his robes, where he kept it when he wasn't carrying his cane, and aimed at the wall. "_Hago Pared Dura_." There was no visible change, yet when Narcissa stretched out a hand, it stopped abruptly at the now solid wall.

"This place is incredible!" Aline murmured, wandering into the room holding Adriel, her eyes darting here and there. "And you even have a hidden room."

"How Malfoyish," said Severus, though he was intrigued. "I don't recall you ever mentioning it, nor have I ever heard that spell."

"I learned the spell from Mateo—he was a wizard, you remember," Lucius explained, setting his son on the floor beside him. "I had the room put in right after the dark lord was reborn, in the event I needed to hide my family. It's soundproofed, yet allows us to view the playroom from inside. The toys and such were added later, and I suppose we forgot to seal the wall up again."

"And Voldemort never found out about this?" asked Severus. It wasn't unlikely that Malfoy had used Occlumency to shield this, along with so many other subversions he was guilty of over the years.

"No, he never knew," Narcissa confirmed. "And even if he had, it's keyed to my blood and Lucius'. Only we and family members can get in."

"I shudder to think Bellatrix had access," Severus said.

"She was among the not-informed crowd, Severus. Merlin, do you think I'd tell her and not _you_?" Lucius insisted. "Even if she'd discovered it, once inside, we could harden the wall; she wouldn't have known the spell to reverse it."

"Fa'er, play with me," Ladon implored, tugging at his pantleg, turning his darling face up to his daddy, and blinking his big grey eyes.

Lucius glanced over at his friend and cocked his head slightly as if to ask, 'Do you mind?' Severus smiled and knelt down, still holding Aidan, who seemed mesmerized by Khala and Ladon. Little people! Aline sat on the floor beside her husband, setting Adriel on her lap, leaning against her. Narcissa sat Khala down, and for an hour the Malfoys and Snapes played.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Oksana studied her reflection in the mirror of Borimetchka's bathroom—yes, an actual, real bathroom with walls, ceiling, and all. As a permanent resident in these cold mountains, Bori had built himself a large, stone cabin with two bedrooms and a cozy, if not extravagant, bathroom. When his pet dragon had accidentally torched Oksana's tent (she being the only woman, there'd been no available cabin, as all were packed with men), the gentlemanly thing to do had been to invite her into his house. She'd refused his offer to give her his own room to sleep in, and instead bunked comfortably in the second bedroom.

Thus it was she found herself staring at her reflection on this chilly evening. The floor length, sleeveless black gown looked gorgeous on her slim figure, and the matching bolero jacket decked in a delicate sequin pattern only added to the appeal. With her blond hair swept up away from her face, accenting her cheekbones, she was…stunning. Yes, that was the word. In fact, two of the men who'd seen her walk out of the cabin had stopped in their tracks to gawp at her. She nervously wondered what Draco's reaction would be.

She stood shivering outside his cabin, cleared her throat, and called out, "Draco, are you ready? We must go if we are to be on time."

Almost immediately the door opened, and Draco came out wearing a set of dark green, buttery soft, high-necked robes, with silver snake cufflinks. He threw an expensive, heavy black cloak trimmed in a silver leaf around himself as he said, "I was coming to get you." The implication being the _man_ comes to pick up the _woman_. "Aren't you cold?"

Oksana nodded, took out her wand from her black silk purse, and cast a warming charm on herself. "You look very handsome."

"Thank you. You look exquisite yourself." He crooked his elbow for her to latch onto, and they disapparated.

They apparated into Sofia in a wide alley between two buildings facing a busy street. Draco thought it oddly like Diagon Alley in the way the muggles rushed right by, not one of them even glancing into the alley, most probably because muggle eyes couldn't detect the alley.

"Bori said we go this way and turn right," Oksana instructed, leading the way.

As they rounded a corner, they came upon what appeared to be a solid brick wall. Using her wand, Oksana tapped on three different bricks; a doorway opened to reveal a grand hall where hundreds of wizards and witches dressed to the nines milled about in a lobby. The pair stepped inside and the wall closed behind them. Draco handed the tickets to an attendant, who pointed out the seat section in the auditorium, prime seats up front, where they needed no lenses to get a good view of the orchestra.

The concert began with a classical piece by Chopin, whom many adherents insisted had been a wizard himself. Oksana was enjoying herself immensely as the night wore on, but on the occasions she turned to Draco for his feedback, he was staring fixedly, looking paler than normal even in the dim light. When a young woman with dark hair and unusual violet eyes played a haunting violin solo, he couldn't tear his eyes off her.

After the show, Draco fairly dragged Oksana back into the alley, where dozens of wizards and witches were disapparating. Before she knew it, they were back in the mountains, beside Bori's cabin.

"I had a very nice time, Oksana. Thank you for inviting me." He spun on his heel to go.

Oksana stopped him with a hand on his arm. When he reluctantly turned back, he was biting his lower lip and looking wretchedly forlorn. "Who is she?" As expected, he declined to answer, though he gave off a certain aura of guilt. "The woman with the violin. You stare at her all evening, then get very sad. Who is she?"

"My wife," he answered softly. To her horrified expression, he hurriedly corrected himself. "She was supposed to be my wife. We broke up." A hard lump worked its way up his throat and he struggled to push it down. He hadn't appreciated how much he truly missed Astoria.

He still loved her; Oksana didn't have to ask to understand that. At least his rejections of her advances made sense now, and she knew enough about men to realize a heart belonging to another was not something to covet. "Why you didn't talk to her?"

He gave a lifeless shrug. It sounded too babyish to say he was afraid she'd refuse to speak to him, or worse yet call security and have him thrown out. "I'm sorry if I ruined your evening, Oksana. I really do like you—"

She touched a finger to his lips. "We are friends. We stay friends. It is better." She kissed him on the cheek and stepped up onto the porch. "Your witch—she plays beautifully."

Draco smiled in spite of himself. "Yes, she does. I don't think I ever told her how good I think she is." _There are so many things I didn't say._ "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Draco." Borimetchka was nowhere in sight, so Oksana assumed he'd gone to bed. She crept through the living room, down the hall to her bedroom, and lit the tip of her wand. Lying on her bed—or rather, the smashed remains of what had been her bed—was Dragomir. He lifted his head and blew a light puff of smoke at her.

"BORI!"


	30. For Love

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 30 (For Love)

**Evening of September 19, 2000**

"Goodnight, Draco." Borimetchka was nowhere in sight, so Oksana assumed he'd gone to bed. She crept through the living room, down the hall to her bedroom, and lit the tip of her wand. Lying on her bed—or rather, the smashed remains of what had been her bed—was Dragomir. He lifted his head and blew a light puff of smoke at her.

"BORI!"

At the sound of a banshee screaming his name, Borimetchka leapt out of bed, semi-conscious, his heart pounding like a muggle jackhammer. He stood for a moment on the cold floor of his room, dazedly trying to wake up, when the shout rang out again.

"Bori! Get him out of here!"

An intruder in Oksana's room! Without a thought to grab his wand, which he'd never actually used on a human anyway, he bolted down the hall. For a man of nearly seven feet tall, he was surprisingly quick and agile. He burst through the doorway, ready to annihilate the enemy with his bare hands, then came to a sudden halt.

There was Oksana, in a tantalizing, chic outfit, looking put out but not frightened…and Dragomir in the bed…Dragomir? His dark eyes scanned the room in a mere blink, determined there existed no threat (unless to his ears if Oksana screeched again), and finally settled on the woman. "Are you alright?"

She nodded.

"You look beautiful." Had he said that out loud? He didn't make a habit of flirting with witches. Hell, he wasn't quite sure _how_ to flirt, it had been so long since he'd lived among the company of females rather than men and dragons.

The way she stared at him, raking him with those blue eyes up and down his body, would have made many blokes uncomfortable. Bori took it in stride; having been extremely tall and sturdy all his life, he'd gotten used to gawking and whispering. He was big, he wasn't blind or deaf.

Oksana wasn't whispering, but she wasn't exactly speaking, either, though her lips parted in a strangely awed manner. One finger reached out to trace the scars crossing his chest and arm, the scars acquired from his legendary fight with a bear. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly.

Bori's thick black mustache twitched as he suppressed a smile. "No. It was a long time ago."

Still Oksana had not torn her eyes from his heavily muscled arms and hairy torso…until they wandered further down to study his trunk-like thighs and tight bum clothed only in flannel boxer shorts. "You're probably cold," she said absently.

"Oksana, what were you screaming about?" he asked, finally beginning to feel self-conscious in only his underwear, being examined like a specimen in a laboratory.

The spell broken, she turned her head to look at Dragomir, and a thumb jerked in the same direction. "Why is he in here? You need to get him out so I can repair the bed."

Bori gazed at his pet, whose eyes had drifted shut. He hated to disturb the poor, sweet creature, and he failed to understand why she resented Dragomir so much. This had been, after all, Dragomir's bed until he'd modified it for Oksana! Probably best not to tell her that. "You can take mine tonight. I'll sleep on the couch, then fix your bed in the morning."

It was futile to argue; Bori loved that blasted dragon and pampered him at every turn. Oksana heaved an annoyed sigh, though she snatched her nightgown off the chair. "Alright. Tomorrow I'm setting up wards to keep him out."

"If you must," Bori murmured. Gesturing for her to proceed, he followed her out of the room. When she crossed the living area to his own room, he veered off to the couch. Damn it, he'd forgot to get a blanket, and it was cold in there! A faint growl escaped him as he traipsed into his bedroom and flung open the chest at the foot of his bed. He withdrew a heavy woolen blanket and was on his way out when she asked.

"You sent us to Sofia, knowing Draco's old girlfriend would be there, didn't you?" It came out as more of an accusation.

He hesitated, halfway out the door. Yes, he'd asked Charlie to get him information on Draco at the beginning, to give him an indication of the kind of fellow Malfoy was. Was it his fault that Charlie had found out from his brother Ron, who learned from his girlfriend Romilda Vane, that Draco had been seeing Astoria Greengrass, and had recently had a bad breakup? Was it his fault Charlie also happened to mention that said Astoria Greengrass was employed as a soloist in the traveling orchestra?

That information, combined with the fact that Borimetchka was fully man himself (and as such tended to notice Oksana more than he cared to admit), led him to track down the young lady via obtaining a schedule of upcoming performances. There he learned she would be coming to Bulgaria. He wasn't one to question Providence; when something too good to be a mere coincidence fell into his lap, what was he supposed to do? Take advantage of it, of course.

He turned to face the woman. "Yes, I knew. What difference does it make? Draco feels the way he feels, regardless. If he harbored nothing for this other girl, you wouldn't be asking me this question. Now you know that to pursue him is fruitless."

"And you did this out of the goodness of your heart, no doubt," she retorted. "Are you trying to reunite them? Why do you care?"

"You are very far from stupid, Oksana. Figure it out." He threw the blanket over one shoulder and started out the door once more.

When she grabbed his arm to spin him back, she saw a flicker in those gentle black eyes; the big boss who always seemed so imposing was, in this intimate posture, just a man. Acting on an impulse she'd developed the first time she laid eyes on Bori, she lunged forward, pulled his face down to her level, and locked her lips on his.

To her dismay, he stiffened and pulled away. In a low, almost imperceptible voice, he said, "You can't win Malfoy, so you come for me? I've heard stories of how you play with men and throw them away; I won't be one of them. I am not a toy for your amusement."

Embarrassed, shouting in frustration, Oksana barked, "I don't understand you! You don't want me to be with Draco, yet you don't want me for yourself!"

"I didn't say that," Bori responded quietly. "You've given your body to many men, Oksana…have you ever given your heart?" It stunned the witch into silence, so he went on, "When you're ready to do that, we'll talk. Goodnight." He slipped out and closed the door before trudging to the couch and collapsing on the thankfully well-made furniture.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**April 25, 1943**

Quenby Nott was going to graduate in a couple of months. Tom didn't care, not really, except he'd found it convenient and expedient to keep his 'friends' close at hand. If they drifted away, there'd be that many fewer to aid him in his goal of overthrowing the Ministry and setting up a government run by himself to control those lesser than himself—that being everyone, of course. Not that he had all the details worked out, or even a semi-workable plan; that wasn't the point. In time, he'd be ready, and he'd need followers to do his bidding. With this in mind, he made it a point to be affable with Nott, as he'd need to remain in contact with him—and with the younger ones, come to think of it. Next year, _he'd_ be graduating, and it wouldn't do to have them forget him. He'd have to make sure to keep in touch frequently.

They sat by the lake, Tom and his gang, on this pleasant spring day—on the far side of the lake, away from the hundreds of other students gallivanting about and chattering like trained parrots. With his wand, Tom lifted a crisp dried leaf left over from autumn and now uncovered as the snow melted. It seemed an idle act, not intended for any real purpose, until Mulciber took aim with his own wand, and the leaf ignited and was gone in a puff of smoke.

Another leaf raised. Nott shot it with his wand, producing a clean, round hole very reminiscent of a bullet hole. He then ignited it as Mulciber had done. Another leaf raised, the pattern so set no one needed to ask what they were doing or why: they were practicing for the future.

Dolohov let his wand slash with a flick of his wrist, and the bottom half of the leaf fluttered to the ground. None of the boys had uttered a single word, though Dolohov was a mere fourth year, capable of unspoken spells as were all but the two youngest, Yaxley and Avery.

"Well done, my friends. Your skills have increased dramatically since we first met." Riddle inclined his head slightly at the two youngest boys. "Mulciber, Lestrange, for the rest of the term I'd like you to mentor Yaxley and Avery on silent spells. Use the Forbidden Forest if necessary."

"Yes, Lord Voldemort," the boys murmured in unison, pleased and proud to be chosen for such an important task.

"My lord, I could continue to teach Yaxley over summer break," Dolohov offered eagerly. "We live near each other."

Riddle smiled and nodded. Dolohov was only a year above Yaxley, yet his knowledge of and talent for Dark Arts was extensive and promising. "That would be most beneficial. Rosier, isn't your family friendly with Avery's?"

"Yes, my lord." Rosier's eyes lit up. Was he being chosen as well? As a fourth year, he wouldn't generally jump at the chance to spend months with a second year, but this was no ordinary circumstance.

"Instruct him at every opportunity. Remember, all of you: we are a unit, our lives and our fates intertwine. You must support and help one another if we are to achieve dominance." He twisted ever so slightly to Nott, who'd been quieter than usual. "Is there something on your mind?"

Nott shook his head, eyes fixed on a thawed patch of straw-like grass.

"He's mooning over that girl, Karina," said Lestrange, pointing across the lake. In a circle of Ravenclaw girls, a pale, blond head poked up, and the girl in question peered over at the troupe of boys, then quickly ducked back down when she saw them all looking back.

Long after the Ravenclaw had hunkered down, giggling and sighing, with her friends, Tom continued to observe her. The youths around him conversed, and he heard without really listening.

"You can't marry her," Mulciber was saying in an irritated tone to his friend. "Your parents said no."

Nott hesitated only a second before blurting, "I don't care. I've always done what they wanted, but this time I won't. I'm not giving her up. I plan to propose."

"Don't be rash and stupid," Claudius interjected, casting another glance at the gaggle of girls. "What if they disown you? You'll be a pauper."

"I don't care," Nott repeated. "My parents think because _their_ arranged marriage worked out great, that mine will, too. We all know how slim the likelihood of that is. If they'd made the decision for me before I fell in love—"

Tom snorted at the word, though the others appeared too engrossed in their conversation to hear it.

"—I'd have accepted it." He was a good, dutiful pureblood, after all. "But they didn't. I made my choice, and I don't care if they try finding someone else for me."

"She's pureblood," Rosier noted, then asked, "Why do they object to her?" As far as he knew about marriage, bloodlines were the most important thing.

"They say she hasn't got a strong constitution," Nott muttered, growing sullen at the discussion. "Her doctors said it's unlikely she'd be able to have a baby, or if she did, she probably wouldn't live past the birth. I think they're full of shit."

"I'm not getting married till I'm at least thirty," Mulciber announced. "Arranged or not, I don't need the headache. Then I can have an heir and die."

The other lads laughed, every one except Nott, who resumed gazing blankly and morosely at the ground. Tom regarded them one by one before finally speaking. Although these specific words were directed at Nott, the implication was there for all.

"If you want her, take her." It embodied the very essence of his philosophy: obtain desires in whatever manner available, through manipulation and power, if necessary. The boys shushed immediately to listen to the tidbits of wisdom dripping from his lips. "You determine the course of your life by your actions, and you exhibit backbone when you refuse to be swayed in your beliefs. Convictions make a man; misguided qualms make a poof. Which do you want to be?"

All eyes landed on Nott, who reddened and stood up. Thin, gangly, a bit stoop-shouldered, he looked more like a scarecrow than a man, albeit a fairly handsome scarecrow. "I'm going to ask her."

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**September 25, 2000**

_April 25, 1943_

_ Nott proposed to his girlfriend today, and she accepted. I gave him the nudge to do it, because the lovesick fool was useless the way he was. If only there were a way to stop men from 'falling in love'. What a sickening phrase! Falling—loss of control—possible damage. How apropos._

_ I do wonder if his parents will disown him. If so, it will cut down on any wealth I might draw on for my future plans. I tend to think they will not, however. Despite his disobedience in this matter, they love him. There is that word again! In this case, it works to my advantage, I suppose, since they dote on him, their only child. I wonder what that would be like._

The entry ended abruptly with a half-written, undecipherable word scribbled out at the end. Severus' eyes lifted to rest on the wall in front of him, staring vacantly. Tom had been jealous of Nott, of the affection he shared with his parents. More than the vague longing in the final sentence, it was a certainty he felt in the pit of his stomach, and it frightened him. He shouldn't be able to feel Tom's emotions anymore, should he? Or was he only using what he knew of Riddle to extrapolate that he must have felt this way?

No point in panicking, surely it was nothing. His thoughts drifted to his old Hogwarts roommate and friend, Udo Nott. As much as Quenby Nott had been doted upon, he'd lavished attention and affection on his only son. Yes, he'd scolded the boy for bad grades and for getting into trouble, even whipped him occasionally, but Severus had never had cause to believe Mr. Nott felt anything except love for his son.

And the doctors' dire warnings had been grossly exaggerated, for Mr. Nott hadn't been widowed. Karina's fragile health had contributed to several miscarriages in the fifteen-plus years of marriage before giving birth to Udo, but she'd survived. Nor had Nott, Sr. been disinherited for choosing his own wife; Theodore, his grandson, now lived in the very house where Udo and Quenby had grown up.

Severus thought he really ought to go visit Nott. It had been a very long time since he'd been to the old Lestrange house in Scotland, where Nott lived, even though it was not so far from Hogwarts. Maybe he'd owl his friend to give fair warning—to avoid any unpleasant curses to the back—before popping in. For now, he'd like to spend time with his own family.

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"What did I teach you about record keeping?' drawled Lucius as he hovered behind Regulus.

The latter sat at Malfoy's study desk, papers splayed in front of him, quill in hand, reviewing the recent purchase of a parcel of land on the outskirts of London. "To record the initial bid, counter offer, final offer, and sale price," Regulus answered wearily. They'd been working for almost three hours, and frankly he was getting sick of it. Business was fun, if not shoved down his throat and clogging his brain till his mind swam.

Lucius reached over his shoulder to tap a finger on the far left column of a parchment. "Where is the bid amount? How are you going to calculate the percentage they're willing to decrease the sale price?"

"What difference does it make?" snapped Reg, scowling.

"It makes a difference if we ever do business with this particular company again," Lucius explained, astonishingly patiently. "We'll have a good idea of how much they will bend. If their history suggests they're willing to go down 20%, but we only demand a decrease of 10%, we'd be cheating ourselves." He slid aside two or three more parchments to reveal one packed with figures. At the top was the title _Beechwood Land and Home._ It detailed no less than twelve deals made with this company, listed in order of transaction date. At the far right column, just as Malfoy had said, was a list of percentages, each incrementally higher than the last.

Regulus sighed, but he nodded. Lucius was right, and now he recalled having seen that document before. "I'm sorry. I should have paid closer attention."

"Take a break, get up and walk around," said Lucius as he moved round to the front of the desk. How well he remembered the lessons under his father's tutelage, where no nonsense had been tolerated. He would have appreciated a bit of latitude, which was why he allowed Reg this modicum of freedom.

_Knock, knock._ "Master Malfoy?" Sisidy peeked her oversized head through the narrow opening between door and frame. "Mister Bayly comes to see Master Malfoy. Should Sisidy tells Mister Bayly you is busy?"

"No, that's alright, Sisidy. Show him to the front parlour, I'll meet him there." He glanced at Regulus with a droll smile. "It looks like you've got a recess whether you want it or not."

As Lucius headed out, Reg shot back, "Whatever might give you the notion I _don't_ want one? And a snack would be nice!"

Lucius continued on course, not bothering to comment. What did he look like, a bloody house elf? If the kid wanted food, he could ask Sisidy or Cinchona. At the double doors to the parlour, he paused. "Hello, Bayly."

The young man spun around from the picture of a live battle he'd been watching. "Hi, Mr. Malfoy." He hurried over to shake the older wizard's hand.

"I trust everything is well?" Lucius inquired, ushering the youth back into the parlor. Even as he said it, he realized all was not well simply from the puckered brows and troubled eyes of the lad. The boy had never learned to hide his emotions. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Bayly hedged, feeling foolish. His restlessness made him fidget, which made him feel even more foolish. What was he doing here, intent on questioning Mr. Malfoy about his mate? What kind of reception was that likely to earn him?

Lucius glided across the floor to the leather armchairs set opposite one another and half-facing the sofa. He seated himself, crossed his legs, and leaned back. A casual wave of his hand indicated that Bayly should do the same, and the boy complied with the unspoken request. Inside, Lucius' stomach clenched with fear at the thought that perhaps Severus had gone off the deep end again.

"What's happened?" Malfoy asked, showing no trace of his anxiety.

"My mum is dating Jorab Goodman."

The grey Malfoy eyes widened a tad in surprise, but he said nothing, betrayed nothing. So it hadn't to do with Snape…that was good. On the other hand, Rabby's true identity may have been compromised. At this point, it was best to find out what the lad had discovered that made him so antsy, before jumping to conclusions or—worse yet—straight to panic.

"I'm not sure if we can trust him," Bayly went on, mentally kicking himself for saying it. Did he need to remind himself that this was _Mr. Malfoy's friend_? Questioning his trustworthiness was tantamount to a tacit assertion that Mr. Malfoy was a poor judge of character! Still Lucius hadn't spoken, and Bayly gave a weak smile, then started to backpedal. "I mean, I don't know him, but you do, so I thought I'd ask you…" Better to shut up while the hole was able to be dug back out of.

Lucius cleared his throat. "If I understand you correctly, you'd like to assess my relationship to Jorab, and whether I believe your mother is in good hands with him."

"With all respect, yes, sir." Before he could stop himself, the words sprang from his lips, "He was a Death Eater."

Malfoy's mouth tipped into an amused smirk. "Yes, we're all cognizant of that fact. I was a Death Eater, Bayly. As was Snape."

"I didn't mean it like that…exactly," mumbled the boy.

"I'm sure you didn't. She's your mother, and you're quite naturally worried for her." After Dolohov, that was wholly understandable. "But as you are aware, not all Death Eaters are the same. Have you gotten to know Jorab?"

Bayly dropped his eyes and shook his head. In a small voice he murmured, "I was kind of an arsehole to him, I guess. But I need to know my mum is safe with him." He lifted his head, locking his eyes with Lucius'.

Again, a perfectly natural response for a young man. To use a blatant understatement, Voldemort's followers had a bad reputation, and not for ill reason; Rabastan Lestrange had killed and tortured people, a lot of people, without regret or vacillation. The fact that he'd now changed, had shed his old life and was trying to atone for it, would not make Bayly feel more secure. Lucius dared not even venture into Rabastan's least objectionable exploits as a Death Eater, not even with the name changed; he'd have to avoid that part of the subject altogether.

He took a deep breath and let it out gradually. "I've known Jorab for most of my life. While I've always gotten on with his brother Wendolph, Jorab has never been a close friend. This is not to say I don't trust him. He tends to keep to himself, yet he is dependable and he is incredibly loyal when he makes a commitment."

"I get the feeling Mum wants to marry him," Bayly said softly, almost despairingly. "The way she's been talking about him—I think he might propose. They've only been together for a little over five weeks!"

"I understand your concern, Bayly," said Lucius. "But when all is said and done, this isn't your decision. How long were you with Gloria before you knew she was the one?"

"I don't know…a month or two," admitted the youth. A flush crept into his cheeks. How could he impugn Mum for being like himself?

A thought, a niggling in the corner of Lucius' mind struggled to the forefront. He was primed to reject it, yet…maybe it could help. Bayly saw Rabby as an intruder, an outsider to be wary of. It was highly unlikely he had a clue how much he and Rab had in common, or that Rab shared many of the same insecurities and fears. "Bayly, I'd like to tell you something that I doubt Jorab ever would—something your mother may not even know."

Bayly leaned forward expectantly, interested and curious.

Watching and observing the boy's reaction, Lucius said, "Jorab's father was cruel and abusive to him. Wendolph, the elder and heir, was treated like a prince, while Jorab was beaten and neglected because his parents considered him to be nothing."

As anticipated, Bayly's eyes clouded and he automatically pressed himself back in his chair as if to distance himself from the cruel man he'd never met. "Why are you telling me this?"

Lucius shrugged lightly; one corner of his mouth quirked upward into a wry smile. "Why do you think? For you to recognize that in some ways, you and Jorab are not so different. You understand what it's like to be helpless, to guard your thoughts and words, to hide your true self; so does he. He spent his life that way. Your mother is drawing him out as Gloria did for you. Do you begrudge him that?"

"No, sir, of course not. It just…it's happening so fast."

"As I said earlier, this isn't your decision to make, it belongs to your mum. If Jorab makes her happy, give him a chance," Lucius advised. "If he has opened his heart to her, I can assure you that he will protect her with his life, nor will he ever harm her."

Bayly nodded mutely. His foot tapped up and down on the Persian rug, testimony to the turmoil raging in his mind. There were still so many unanswered questions, so much he'd like to know about this bloke…things best learned from the source, he supposed. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I do feel a little better about it."

"You're welcome, son. Is there anything else I can do?"

Bayly shook his head as he stood up. "I should go. Jorab has invited me and Gloria to the clinic where he works as a veterinarian, then to dinner. He said he'd like to get to know us."

Lucius smiled, rose from his chair, and extended a hand to the young man. "That's an excellent idea. I think once you come to know him, you'll see that your mother is in good hands."

"Will you tell Mrs. Malfoy I send my regards?" asked Bayly as he headed to the door.

"I will, indeed. Have a good time." Lucius walked with him to the front door, from where the lad stepped onto the porch and disapparated. Lucius stood in the doorway, lost in thought. So, Livonia Young and Jorab Goodman were an item. How had he not heard that through the grapevine? How did _Narcissa_ not hear it?

He gave a little shrug, shut the door, and whirled round to go back to his study. Regulus, despite his proclivity for pissing around, had turned out to be a fine student. All these years he'd considered the kid a scatterbrained twit, and apparently he'd been hiding a resourcefulness and clever streak all along.

Lucius entered his study just as Regulus looked up from the drawer he'd been pawing through. A look of frightened dread crept over the younger, and he slid the drawer shut slowly, silently. In a heartbeat, Malfoy crossed the floor, eyes blazing, jaw set in a snarl that chilled Black to the bone.

In a tone dripping with ice, Lucius demanded, "What were you doing rummaging through my desk?"

Regulus swallowed hard. He'd been bored, and when Lucius hadn't come back right away, his mind and hands began to wander. He hadn't meant any harm. "I was…um…looking for…a quill."

Years of practice weren't necessary to discern when the boy was lying, for it took precious little skill. The kid couldn't lie properly if his life depended on it! At the moment, it looked to Reg like his life _did_ depend on it. One of Lucius' hands swooped down, plucked a quill from the stand on top of the desk, and pitched it into Reg's chest with a flick of his fingers, leaving an ink stain on Black's shirt. "Care to try again?"

Regulus raised one hand. In his palm he held a hard, black object slightly larger than his fist. "What are you doing with this?" If Reg hadn't already been terrified of what Lucius might do, he would have laughed at the way the blond's eyes almost popped out of his skull.

Lucius reached over the desk, snatched the object from Reg, and shoved it into his trouser pocket. "You'd do well to keep your pinching fingers to yourself, Black, lest you lose one or two of them," he said in a harsh whisper.

"I know what it is," declared Regulus, sliding his hands under the desk in case Lucius decided to make good on his threat. "I can't believe you'd—"

Lucius lowered his voice to an ominously eerie croon. "You don't know anything! In fact, you didn't find anything." He picked up his cane propped against the side of the desk.

Regulus gulped as he looked around desperately for a means of escape. "Come on, Lucius. You can't hit me with that! I'm not your son."

The other wizard smiled coldly. "That wouldn't stop me if I had a mind to beat some sense into you, would it?" With one hand holding the shaft of the cane, he withdrew the wand and directed it at the youth.

Fearing the worst, Reg actually whimpered. Lucius was going to torture him! Or kill him! "Lucius, please. I won't do it again. I won't tell anyone—"

"_Obliviate_." He said the word quietly, deliberately, careful to use only a weak shot of magic, enough to erase only the last fifteen minutes or so. While Regulus sat there blinking and dazed, he proceeded to use spells to double-lock all the drawers, then returned his wand to the cane.

Regulus peered up at him, squinting, obviously confused. "I forgot what I was doing."

Lucius edged round the desk and pointed to one of the parchments spread there. "The lot outside London. We were going to calculate the percentages…"


	31. Animal Instincts

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 31 (Animal Instincts)

**September 25, 2000**

Rabby was nervous. That wasn't exactly news, for he'd been the high-strung type since he was a child walking on eggshells at home. Today was an important day in the scheme of things, and if he messed it up, his life hung in the balance—not literally, of course, but in the way that mattered most to him. Livonia knew her son had been invited here, she'd expect to hear a glowing report of Bayly and Rab getting along, clasping hands and singing hunky-dory songs…well, alright, that was getting carried away. But the fact remained, without Bayly's goodwill, Livonia would continue to pull away from him, and he couldn't bear it. He had to make a good impression.

Garbed in muted yet expensive dress robes, he paced up and down in the spotless lobby of the clinic, his gaze flitting every few seconds to the tall, clear glass windows. Dolph, seated in the receptionist's chair, his feet propped on the desk, observed his brother. He'd never been one to care about impressing others, probably because his bored, self-assured stance drew people to him naturally, people concerned with winning _his_ approval. Aside from Bella and the dark lord, he'd never had to expend energy on making people like him.

That notwithstanding, he understood a great deal about human nature; he intended to help his brother win over Young and his bride if it was the last thing he did. Thus, he'd made the suggestion to invite Gloria because 'girls love animals'—except maybe for Bella, but she was a special case all around. If Rabby won over Gloria, he'd be well on his way to making Bayly admit he was a decent bloke, since Gloria—like any beloved wife—held the kid's heart in her palm.

Outside, a stiff breeze blew the sign over the door. Dr. Gissell and Dr. Goodman, Veterinarians swung back and forth, creaking. Because it was still so new to him to be licensed as a proper animal healer, Rabby found himself watching it with pride and a bit of awe. He'd done it, he'd made something of his life that didn't include kowtowing to a maniac or harming people. It was a very good feeling.

A minute later, a dirty blond head popped up beside the front window. Bayly peered inside, turned to his wife, and nodded. He pulled open the door and held it for her, then followed her in. "Hello, Jorab," they said in unison.

Rab held out a hand to each in turn. "I'm glad you could make it, Bayly. Gloria, it's delightful to see you again." It felt strange to act so flattering, but Dolph insisted it was the way to go. He'd even gone so far as to cite Lucius Malfoy, who'd been quite the charmer in school and beyond—when he wanted to be. There was no arguing with results: Dolph and Malfoy had both been highly popular with the ladies, despite the fact they had eyes only for their respective spouses.

"Hey, kid," said Dolph, dropping his feet off the desk and onto the floor. "Hello, Miss Gloria." He rose, took her hand, and planted a soft kiss on the back.

Gloria flushed and stifled a giggle. "Hi, Wendolph."

"Hi, Dolph," Bayly greeted. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"I work here, too," said the older man, gesturing around at the establishment. "I'm not a doctor like my brother, but I like being with the animals." He shot Rabby a look that clearly demanded to know why Rabby wasn't carrying the conversation.

"Why don't you come with me; I'll show you the animals we're currently tending," Jorab suggested as he opened one of the doors leading out of the waiting area. "Some are ill or injured, others are simply boarded till their families come back from holiday."

They all filed in after him, past the table Dolph used for grooming pets, to a long row of large and small cages. In the first cage, two cats—one snow white, the other pitch black—lay curled together with a puffskein cuddled against them, all three purring contentedly.

"These belong to a family who went to Greece for holiday," Jorab explained, one finger poking through the bars to stroke the puffskein.

"How adorable!" Gloria squealed. "Can I pet them?"

Rab hesitated, then gave a jerky nod. "Alright. But you mustn't touch those that are ill or wounded. They may see it as a sign of attack and bite you."

"Okay," Gloria agreed. Already the white cat had crawled up into her arms, and the black one pawed at her chest for attention. The puffskein attached itself to Bayly's shoulder, leaned against his neck, and purred madly.

The next enclosure held a kneazle, resembling but larger than a house cat, with spotted fur, large pointed ears, and a lion-like tail. Its baleful eyes roamed over each human as they passed by, paying special attention to the puffskein clinging to Bayly. Its front paw, wrapped in white bandages, was held up just off the bottom of the cage.

"Dr. Gissell performed surgery on the kneazle two days ago," said Jorab. He'd forgotten already that he was supposed to be concentrating on making a good impression; now that he was here, he automatically fell into healer mode. He opened the door of the cage and the catlike creature limped over to him, where he gently unwound the bandage, examined the sutures, and waved his wand over the paw a few times before wrapping it up again. "You're healing quite fast, little one," he murmured, scratching its ears before locking the door. "You might be going home tomorrow."

Bayly beheld the interaction with a great deal of relief. Kneazles were known to be able to detect unsavory persons, and to react badly to them. This one seemed to _like_ Jorab. "Is that—is that an Aethonan?" he asked, pointing further down to a gigantic stall where a chestnut horse lay in a pile of fresh straw.

"Sure is," said Dolph. "Rab fixed his wing last week—it was nigh torn off in an accident."

Gloria and Bayly winced and grimaced together at the thought of the poor creature's suffering. Jorab smiled modestly. "Let's not disturb him, he needs to rest." He motioned to the cages on the right side of the aisle. "We have some rabbits we're trying to adopt out, and a couple of sick dogs on this corner. And a crup."

A creature looking suspiciously like a Jack Russell terrier pressed its nose against the metal weave, while languidly wagging its forked tail. It then began to bark at the cats climbing on Gloria, and they in turn dug their claws into her as they hissed back.

"Ow, ow, ow," she yelped, dancing and trying to pull the cats off.

Jorab easily snatched up the black cat under its belly and slipped it into its cage in one fluid movement. Dolph did the same with the white. The pair stood mewling at the door until Bayly returned the puffskein to them, at which point they rolled their friend far back and flopped protectively around it.

"Sorry about that," Jorab said. "So…this is what I do. There's no fanfare, but I like it."

"It's an important job," Bayly acknowledged, to Jorab's surprised delight. "Animals need good, qualified people to care for them just like humans do."

"Now I want a pet," Gloria sighed. Bayly rolled his eyes at her, snickering as he did so, and she elbowed him playfully in the ribs.

"If you're ready for dinner, we can leave. I've made reservations at Bradford's finest," said Rabby, ushering them back into the waiting area. He performed a quick wave of his wand over himself to be rid of any hair or smell. "Just let me wash my hands. I'll only be a minute."

While he was gone to the loo, a man outside began pounding at the door. In his arms he carried the limp form of a skinny dog, and blood streaked his shirt. "Let me in! I need to see the vet!"

Dolph pushed open the door; Bayly and Gloria stepped back to allow the fellow passage. His long, reddish hair hung in strings about his gaunt, bearded face, making him look positively caveman-like.

"Bring it into the operating room," Dolph ordered after glancing at the dog and quickly gauging its injuries. "Is it yours?"

"No, I found him in the alley." The bloke obligingly lugged the beast into another room off the lobby and laid it on the pristine, hard table. The dog lay quietly, as if already dead.

There were excited voices outside, then Jorab burst through the door to find the two men and the dog. He swore under his breath as he shucked his outer robe and hung it on a peg on the wall. Rolling up his sleeves, he pulled on a long, white coat over his clothes, took out his wand, and approached the table. Only a few tense seconds passed during the diagnosis. He muttered a charm as he drew the wand along the deep, vicious gash on the animal's side. It failed to close even a tiny bit. His eyes widened a touch in shock and he tried again, this time with a songlike countercurse…once, twice…the wound sealed itself, and the bleeding stopped.

"Is this your dog?" he demanded of the intruder.

"No. Like I told _him_, I found it," the redhead responded.

Rabby eyed him suspiciously, then said to Dolph, "He's got a broken leg I need to set, and I want to test him for diseases. Can you tell Bayly and Gloria it will be a little while? If they don't want to wait, I understand."

"Will do. I'm certain they'll wait," Dolph said. He waved at the other man to accompany him.

Before Dolph had got through the door, Rabby growled, "I'm more than passingly interested to know who did this. There are only a handful of people, to my knowledge, who are familiar with _Sectumsempra_."

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After dinner, during which Jorab struggled to forget the whole dog incident in order to have a pleasant meal, he and Wendolph went back to their house while the Youngs returned home. They'd barely got inside before Rab turned on his brother, eyes flashing, nostrils flared. "Did you attack that dog, Dolph?"

The elder wizard, caught off guard, stepped back and stammered, "N-no. Why would I—when _could_ I?"

"How many people in Bradford know that spell?" Rab shouted back. "You and me!" As far as he was aware, Snape had invented the curse and shared it only with Death Eaters, leaving out the vast majority of the population.

"There could be someone else," Dolph hedged, looking suspiciously contrite.

"Really?" Rab's voice hardened and he took a step toward his brother. "Who? I haven't told anyone."

"Well…Marshal," Dolph responded, not even making eye contact now.

Rabby paused to consider and process the information. Marshal didn't live in Bradford, though he visited on a regular basis. His face took on a look of disgust. "Marshal? That redheaded weirdo was _Marshal_?" Nope, still not making sense. One: how could Dolph know it was Marshal in disguise? Two: Why in Merlin's name would Marshal torture a dog, then bring it to be healed? If Rab knew Wallace Marshal, and he did, the latter was more apt to kill the beast or let it die, he'd not bring it to the one who could ascertain he'd used Dark Magic on it. None of this made a lick of sense.

"Where are you going?" asked Dolph as Rab headed for the fireplace.

"Take a wild guess." An instant later, he was gone in a blue flame.

Dolph followed on his heels, worried that he'd driven his little brother to do something he'd later regret. He arrived at Marshal's flat in London in time for the tenant to swagger over and remark, "The gang's all here. What's the occasion? You might've fire-called or owled, you know. What if I had a date?"

"A date to maim an animal and leave it for me to fix?" Rabby snapped.

Marshal's left brow rose, then the right. Damn that Dolph, he couldn't keep his blasted mouth shut where his brother was concerned! He pointed accusingly at Wendolph. "He asked me to bring an injured animal to you while the kids were there—to show your dedication and skill and some such bullshit. Don't blame me!"

"I _said_ an injured animal!" Dolph bellowed back. "Why did you use _Sectumsempra_ on it? Are you f—king crazy?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a dog that's already hurt when you're in a time crunch?" retorted Marshal, crossing his arms and sulking openly. This was what he got for doing a good deed! Bloody f—king ingrates! "I had to comb the neighborhood to find a stray, then hurt it myself. I figured if the other vet was there, he wouldn't know how to cure that Dark Magic, and Rabby would come off looking pretty damn good. You're welcome!"

Rab resisted a strong compulsion to punch him. As sick as Marshal was, he'd actually been trying to help. "You'd better never do it again," he uttered malevolently.

"You can bet your arse I won't," Marshal replied, glaring back at him. "I got better things to do than put up with your thanklessness."

"You—"

"Let it go, Rabby," Dolph said, pulling on the man's arm. "When it comes down to it, it's my fault. I'll take the dog, if that makes any difference."

"I thought you didn't want a pet."

Dolph shrugged and smiled. "I didn't want Firebolt, either, but she's grown on me." _Like a fungus._ "Let's go check on my dog before bedtime."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 1, 2000**

Theo Nott always looked forward to seeing Jacinta; something about love just made him yearn for her when he was away, and want to immerse himself in her when they were together. At times she complained he was too standoffish, not demonstrative enough, yet what could he do? His shy, retiring nature made it difficult for him to fawn over her in public or to make gross displays of affection. It seemed inappropriate…wrong.

What was even more hideously, wrongly inappropriate was seeing his girlfriend clasped in the arms of another man. Theo skidded to a halt mid-stride, and his jaw dropped to his chest. There, right there in the street in front of Peak's Portraits, Jacinta was hugging…oh, good Lord! A _Weasley_?

His first instinct was to scream in fury, bodily attack the bloke, and rip his head from his neck—in that order. Being slight of build, that option seemed unlikely to be successful. His second thought was to hex Weasley into oblivion, and he very well could…however, the notion of spending his life in Azkaban was less than heartwarming. He straightened himself, closed his gaping mouth, and purposefully strode ahead, his face as blank a mask as any Lucius or Severus could have produced.

"My dear Cinta, how lovely to see you," he said pleasantly, forcing a smile.

George Weasley gave the witch a little squeeze, along with a smirk thrown Theo's way, though he had the sense to back off a pace. There was something in Nott's eye that boded ill, which shouldn't be too surprising from a Death Eater's kid, but he doubted Theo had the guts to act on it. "Hello, Theo."

"Hi, honey," Jacinta greeted him, pecking him on the lips. "I just finished George's portrait—I mean _Fred's_ portrait, and George was thanking me." She made a gesture to the large frame covered in a canvas tarp for protection, which stood at Weasley's feet.

"I believe _galleons_ are the accepted mode of gratitude between a painter and client," said Theo pointedly at Weasley. He put an arm around her waist and started to guide her in the opposite direction. "My mother and—sister—are expecting us." Damn it, he was so enraged he'd almost let slip his father was alive! Weasley would certainly jump on the chance to wreak havoc if he knew.

"Theo, don't be rude," she hissed, spinning out of his grasp. To George she said, "It's been fun working with you. Don't be a stranger."

"I wouldn't dream of it," George crooned back. "See you round. Bye, Theo."

_Bite me, arsehole._ "Goodbye, Weasley."

He took Jacinta's arm and they apparated together to the secluded old Lestrange house in Scotland, where they found Fidelia and Udo in the side garden, weeding manually around a patch of pumpkins. Their hands bore green stains and red callouses. It looked downright painful.

"Why don't you use magic?" Theo asked.

"This is more relaxing," answered his father. "It gets pretty boring here with nothing to do, so working by hand helps pass the time."

"My Papa says it's good to work with your hands," Jacinta added. "It ties you to the world around you."

"That does sound like something Snape would say," laughed Nott.

"Do you want to help me in the kitchen, Jacinta?" asked Fidelia. She'd got up and was brushing her filthy hands on an apron over her clothes. "It's nice to have a woman's company again." Without waiting for an answer, she had the girl's hand in hers and was trotting up the steps to the porch. They disappeared inside.

"Come on, son, give me a hand," invited the elder Nott.

Lacking even a modicum of enthusiasm, Theo knelt in the dirt and started pulling at the long weeds. This was one part of Scotland he didn't miss! "So how's everything going?"

"The boys are doing fine at Beauxbatons, but your mother and sister miss them," answered his father. He threw a chunk of vegetation over his shoulder.

"And you don't?"

Udo peered sidelong at his son and smiled. "Of course I do. I miss you, as well. You don't come to visit very often anymore."

Theo worked in silence for a bit before replying. "I've been working really hard, going on loads of assignments because I'm their best photographer. I think they're considering me for a part-time reporting job."

"That's excellent. You don't look very happy about it."

"I am." No, he did not look happy, not even slightly glad. Glum seemed more apropos. He wrenched a stubborn weed up by the roots with a mighty yank that showered them both with bits of earth. "It takes up all my time, and Cinta feels like I'm slighting her. Maybe I am. That bastard George Weasley makes time, though."

"You're not s'posed to say stuff like 'bastard'," interrupted the voice of a seven-year-old girl. "Is he, Daddy?"

"Shut it, brat," Theo growled at his sister. He threw a clump of dirt at her.

"Theo, knock it off. You're thirteen years older than she is, act like it," admonished his father. "And Missy, you're not to say those words. Why aren't you helping Mummy?"

The girl shrugged one shoulder. "She says I'm in the way. I think she just wants to talk to Jacinta about us." With that, she flopped down at the edge of the garden, an ever-present doll clenched in her fist. Unlike the majority of her dolls in the past, this one still retained a good deal of its hair and clothing. "Who's George Weasley?"

"None of your—" Theo began. A look from his father made him reconsider. "He's…" _An enemy _came to mind, but he'd learned it wasn't wise to give a bigmouthed child such ammunition. "He's a friend of Jacinta. Now go away, we're busy."

"I wanna stay," the girl insisted, undaunted and unmoving. "Guess what? Mummy said she's gonna send me to muggle school!"

If Theo had been eating or drinking, he'd have surely choked. As it was, he nearly sprained his neck whipping it around to gawp at her. "She what?"

"That's not what she said," Udo corrected, shaking his head. "She might let Missy take piano lessons from a muggle in town, since we've not wizards or witches in these parts. There's a lass who teaches, and your mum would be there to make sure nothing…unusual…happens."

"But still, a _muggle_," Theo mused aloud. What a tremendous step for a pureblood, especially a pureblood family who'd been steeped in their own superiority to the point of becoming Death Eaters for two generations. "Why can't Mum teach her?"

Udo sighed heavily, sat back on his heels, and regarded his son through tired eyes. "We spend our lives up here alone, Theo. It's my fault your mother is here, since she wants to be with me, and I can't show my face in wizarding society. Sometimes we need company, even of the less desirable sort. How can I begrudge her company once a week?"

Theo merely shook his head. The times were indeed changing. "Dad, later on—when we're alone—can I talk to you about Cinta? I need some advice."

Looking pleased that his boy had come to him for guidance, Udo smiled warmly at him. "You know you can. I'm always here for you." He reached a hand for his daughter. "If you're going to hang about, get to work, little Missy."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 7, 1996**

Slouched on his throne in the meeting room of the old castle ruins, head leaned back to stare at the ceiling, hands resting lifelessly on the chair arms, Voldemort looked for all the world to be sulking. He was not, of course, for dark lords did not _sulk_: they ruminated, deliberated, meditated, pondered, and plotted, but they did not _sulk_. To the boorish, untrained eye it may be construed as brooding, which was why Voldemort surrounded himself with more sophisticated allies. Or, he _had_ surrounded himself, before a dozen of them had been hauled off to Azkaban!

"Bellatrix!" he bellowed.

The witch scurried into the room, dropped to hands and knees, and crawled forward. She notably stopped several feet away, head down, eyes on the floor. "My lord, what can I do?"

"Bring me Snape," Voldemort commanded.

She hesitated, confused. "Master? Can't you call him? Surely he will come when summoned."

In the blink of an eye, his wand was out, aimed at her head, his high voice shrieking. "_Do as I say!_ You have failed me once, Bellatrix; I will not stand for it again. GO!"

She jumped to her feet and bolted from the room. A thunderous crack behind her let her know she'd narrowly missed being struck by a nasty curse that took out a good chunk of the wall.

While she was gone, Voldemort resumed slumping on his throne, his mind seething all over again with fury. Those fools, those incompetent fools! Malfoy, Nott, Jugson, Rabastan, Rodolphus, Crabbe, Dolohov, Mulciber, Macnair, Avery, Rookwood—all of them stupid enough to be captured in the Department of Mysteries. But one stood out among them as the most culpable: Lucius Malfoy. He'd been the leader of the mission. All he had to do was coerce the Potter brat into handing over the prophecy, and he couldn't even do that.

_Damn it all!_ he seethed. Now he'd never know what the prophecy said, and someone had to pay for that. And that someone should be Lucius, should it not?

Running footsteps thudded through the castle and into the meeting room. Panting, Snape bowed low, then went down to his knees. "My lord. How can I serve you?"

"Not by wheezing like an asthmatic," returned the dark lord petulantly.

"Bellatrix made a fire-call to me. She said it was urgent." Severus' breathing was returning to normal. "Forgive my…noises," he finished lamely.

Voldemort sat up straight and fixed his minion with a discomforting stare. "As everyone in Britain is aware, the Potter whelp has made a laughingstock of me again. My followers showed themselves to be worthless buffoons."

Not sure whether a reply was called for, Snape merely looked down at the floor, his lank hair both framing and hiding his face.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" snapped Voldemort.

"My lord, not all your followers are ineffectual," Severus said levelly, quietly. Clearly he meant himself, though he dared not toot his own horn at this particular moment. Even this contradiction could earn him a world of hurt. "Harry Potter is nothing, a mediocre moron of incredible luck. In truth, was it not Dumbledore's arrival that caused the real damage? Bellatrix managed to kill Black, and certainly your men could have outfought those loathsome Order members without his participation."

"The prophecy was still lost!" Voldemort screeched.

It took an act of will not to stop his ears against the sound, but Snape was well versed in acts of will. "You're right, of course. They were clumsy and inept. Perhaps a stint in Azkaban will teach them better." Now that the dementors had gone, at least he needn't worry about Lucius going mad or having his soul sucked out.

"No, Severus, that is not sufficient," Voldemort hissed. "Lucius was in charge, and he failed me spectacularly. He must pay."

Severus grimaced. Did he really have to gainsay the master again? Those red eyes bored into him, demanding an answer. "Forgive me, my lord, but Lucius is in Azkaban. Until you see fit to break him loose—"

"_Think_, Severus! Malfoy is weak; the ones who mean the most to him are his weakest link. If I can't punish him physically, I can torment him mentally." Voldemort smiled evilly, and Snape's stomach lurched so hard he vomited a little in his mouth.

He forced himself to swallow. "I—I don't follow, master."

"Bring me Draco. I have a task for him."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_July 7, 1996_

_ Today, for the first time since my Death Eaters botched their assignment and landed in Azkaban, I experienced a spot of joy. I have come to a decision on not only how to punish Lucius for his gross failure, but also how to rid myself of my fiercest bane._

_ Draco Malfoy has taken the Mark. He has pledged to kill Albus Dumbledore so that I may forgive his father. I am not delusional, I don't entertain the possibility of his success, but it will be fun to watch the process. When he is murdered by Dumbledore, I believe Snape will step in and finish the job. On the other hand, if the implausible were to occur, and Draco survives and achieves his goal, he will have proven himself a worthy Death Eater. I can't lose._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Draco stood outside the pen occupied by Omen. Normally the dragons were allowed free roaming in the community pen, unless one was slated for training, as this one obviously was. Omen was as different from Emerald, Dragomir, and Xerxes as a dragon could be. Black as night, delicate long snout, catlike ears, and vibrant blue eyes made him handsome; the spikes on his tail made him fierce, threatening. Looking at him, Draco thought of Professor Snape, and the image made him chuckle.

He'd just about gathered the courage to defy his order to avoid Omen when he noticed Oksana walking some distance away with one of the handlers. She waved and smiled, but kept going. She'd been sort of aloof lately; he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something felt different since their trip to Sofia…and Astoria. Could he blame her, seriously?

Anyway, no sense in trying to figure out a woman, or moping over one, either. Both paths only led to misery. Draco glanced about, saw the coast was clear, and approached the animal. In order to do so, he had to vanish the bars keeping the beast in the stall. Reaching a tentative hand forward, he advanced; before he got close enough to touch the dragon, he sensed an animosity, a malevolence he'd not felt from any other dragon.

Slowly he began to ease backward to the exit, his eyes locked on Omen, and as luck would have it—or Fate would demand it—his boot heel caught on a metal spike driven into the ground for securing harnesses. He tumbled onto his back, his wand wrenched from his grasp and landing on the ground out of reach. The dragon chose that instant to act. Draco gasped, frantically crab-crawling backward as the dragon snorted and charged.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Master Malfoy, Mistress Malfoy!" Sisidy shrieked all the way as she pattered up the stairs to their bedroom. She pounded violently on the door, sobs racking her concave chest. "Master—"

Lucius jerked open the door, primed to scold the elf for her audacity, but the sight before him made his heart leap. "What is it, Sisidy?"

"M-Master, Charlie Weasley comes. Says he must sees you and Mistress."

"Why are you crying?" The words escaped before he had time to think about them. Even as he said it, his mind whirled with sickening images. Charlie Weasley? That could only mean—Draco!

Narcissa came to the door, drawing her robe around herself. "What's going on?" was all she got out.

"Narcissa, come on." Lucius took his wife's hand and apparated them to the foyer, where Weasley stood stiffly at the front door. The expression on his freckled face, somber and unsure and a bit afraid, felt like a blow to the gut. In his left hand, extended as if of its own accord, he held the charred remains of a heavy cloak, its silver leaf trim still evident on an untouched corner.

"Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy," Charlie said in a bare whisper. "There was a terrible incident with a dragon…it left a man dead…burned beyond recognition. Can you identify this cloak?"

Narcissa rushed forward, snatched it from his hand, and hugged it to her chest. A single hard sob barked from her throat. Lucius, eyes glazed, his visage ashen and shocked, drew her to him, enclosing her in his arms.

"It doesn't mean anything," he said, his voice hollow.

Charlie reached into his pocket and produced a pine wand, ten inches in length. He held it out to Lucius. "I…I'm so sorry. We found this at the scene. It's Draco's wand, isn't it?"

Lucius' eyes refused to look away. It was Draco's wand, the wand they'd got at Conn's shop in Salem. In answer, he buried his face in Narcissa's hair and began to weep.


	32. Draco's Tale

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 32 (Draco's Tale)

**October 2, 2000**

Severus had never before been to Bulgaria; he wished now he could still lay claim to that fact. Slowly, as if in a daze, he walked across the brittle ground, his dragon hide boots crunching underfoot, measuring the distance to the tiny, unassuming stone cabin Charlie Weasley had pointed out to him. When Weasley had made to escort him, he'd roughly brushed him away and muttered a foul muggle curse under his breath.

Puffs of white vapor wafted out of his lungs into the chilly mountain air, but he neither felt the cold breeze on his skin, nor did he notice the glory of the sunrise beckoning a new day in the clear sky. His focus lay solely on the cabin, on the reason he'd come: as a favour to his best friend, to do what no parent should have to do. Accustomed as he was to death in all its forms, he could not reconcile himself to this.

The low door of the cabin swung inward easily, and he ducked down to enter. Morning light trickling through the eastern window landed on the shrouded form on a cot next to the wall. Severus swallowed and stepped over to the body; the acrid odor of burnt flesh and hair stung his nose. He sank to one knee, scarcely able to breathe from the weight on his chest. He'd created the potion which allowed the Malfoys to conceive Draco; he'd known the young man since birth. He loved his godson as his own.

One hand numbly pulled back the white sheet draped over the head of the body, and his stomach turned. He had to look away, regain control of himself, then force himself to do this. The hair was gone, there was not a trace of the silky blond locks so like Lucius'. Severus reached out to touch the blackened remains, but he could not. He gulped down a hard lump surging up his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to be…

A sob ripped from the pit of his gut, and he bowed his head. Tears ran unhindered from his eyes, coursed along the length of his nose, and dropped to the floor. He'd hoped to be able to pry open an eye, an eye that would be brown or black or blue—anything except grey. This corpse had only empty eye sockets that stared reproachfully at him, mocking his grief.

He replaced the shroud over the face, and as he did so it slipped off the booted feet. It seemed odd how this body looked a tad taller than Draco...didn't burning generally make things contract, not expand? Perhaps the water was clouding his vision, or the body being in a prone position made it appear different. Tempted as he was to leave the sheet be, he steeled himself, reminded himself he'd want someone to treat his son with the utmost respect. He got up from the floor to gently tug at the sheet to cover the feet. All of a sudden, he literally fell backward onto his bum, his expression one of absolute shock of revelation.

Snape fairly scrambled for the door, shouting as he went, "Weasley! Weasley!" The door slapped shut behind him.

Charlie, who'd been lurking nearby despite Snape's anticipated nastiness, hastened to him. "What is it, Professor?" Years of being out of school, years of being a grown man himself, had not changed the way he viewed his old instructor.

"It's not Draco."

Pause. Charlie glanced at the cabin, then back to Severus, who still bore the wet sorrow on his cheeks. In a hushed, sympathetic tone he said, "His parents recognized the cloak he was wearing, and his wand."

"And that is why _I'm_ here—to identify the _body_," Severus snapped. He sensed more than saw Charlie's pitied gaze, and with one swipe of a sleeve across his face he dried his tears. "Obviously the corpse is too charred to render any proper conclusion, but his boots aren't even singed—not surprisingly, since they're Chinese Fireball dragon skin."

"So? Dragon hide doesn't burn."

"They're _red_, Weasley. Red work boots." Snape stared at him as if expecting him to understand. Failing that, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "I've been around the Malfoys long enough to know Draco would—pardon the gruesome pun—not be caught dead in _red_ boots, let alone those screaming this person worked for a living."

Another pause, longer. "But, Professor, if it's not Malfoy, why was he wearing Draco's cloak? And why was Draco's wand found beside the dragon cage?"

"I don't know," Severus admitted.

"And vhere is Draco?" interjected Borimetchka, striding over to meet them. His face bore lines of disbelief and concern, mixed with something Severus couldn't quite place.

"I don't know," Severus repeated.

"Ve should tell him," Bori said in a flat, toneless voice. One hand the size of a baseball mitt gestured in the direction of the dragon pens. Automatically Snape's sharp gaze turned that way, not knowing what he was searching for.

"Are you sure?" asked Charlie.

"Tell me what?" Severus demanded.

A nod from Bori and a glare from Snape prompted Weasley to begin walking toward the pen, with the other men flanking him. When they got to the spot where the alleged attack had occurred, Charlie pointed at the ground. One long, narrow strip of burnt grass was the only thing out of place. "We've been examining the scene. If Omen—the missing dragon—had snorted fire, there'd be two scorch marks in billowy patterns. As you can see, there is only one, and it isn't nearly as long as it should be. We'd expect a wider swath of seared grass from Dra—the victim rolling to put out the fire, yet there isn't."

Severus observed the marks in the grass, then gestured to the small stall set apart from the pen. "The dragon was in there?"

"Yes," said Bori. "Omen is gone, and ve found Draco's vand near the stall."

"Charlie," said Severus, startling the redhead with the use of his given name, "are you telling me you believe the man in the cabin was _murdered_, and someone staged it to look like a dragon attack?"

Charlie nodded grimly. "Artem is missing, as is Oksana. Bori and I thought maybe they'd killed Draco and run off together. If this isn't Draco, it most probably is Artem, which means…Draco and Oksana need to be questioned."

"I haf called for aurors to come," Bori said softly. Again the look Snape couldn't quite identify flitted across his features. "They vill be here soon."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Around one of the water creature ponds belonging to Durmstrang Institute, not so far from Samovilla, three barefoot veelas picked their way gracefully over thorny bushes. All three were silvery blond and beautiful, and they sang a lilting melody in their language as they walked.

The first halted to tug at her long, white dress, which a Venomous Tentacula had snagged ahold of. "Are you sure it was here, Dimna?"

Dimna, right behind her, nodded, though the first could not see it. "Yes, Stana. I foresaw it on the full moon last, when we danced in the meadows with our sisters." While much older than either of the others, only the deep knowledge and wisdom in her eyes set her apart.

"Why didn't you tell us then?" asked the third, the youngest of the three.

Dimna shrugged. "It wasn't important until now."

They journeyed round the far end of the pond, their willowy figures moving like specters, and Stana motioned up at a sturdy tree limb ahead; it had broken and now hung by a thread of bark from the trunk, its furthest branches resting in the foliage below. "We're here."

Sure enough, hidden below, nestled in a thick clump of sodden grass, lay the pale, wet and shivering, unconscious form of a human youth. Blood streaked his face and soaked his clothing.

"Those stupid boys and their brooms," lamented the third veela.

"Dimitar will teach him better than to show off," added Dimna, nodding. Bending down, she brushed aside the grass and branches, secured her hands under his armpits, and lifted. "Gyurga, be a dear and get his feet."

Notwithstanding their puny builds, the veelas proved to be quite strong. They handily moved the boy into the open area a distance from the pond, then knelt around him to scrutinize his injuries. From a leather pouch strapped to the sash at her waist, Stana withdrew a combination of herbs, which she placed under his tongue.

"We must hurry. This one is badly hurt," she said. She made a sweeping gesture at the imposing castle in the background. "Tanassov will want to see him immediately."

So saying, she joined the other veelas in lifting the lad again, the three of them in a row supporting him as they carried him to Durmstrang. In passing the herb gardens, Dimna spotted Tanassov's dark head bowed over a patch of sneezewort, his face mostly hidden by the scarf draped around his mouth and nose.

"Dimitar!" called out Dimna, and the wizard raised his head.

In an instant the Headmaster was on his feet, pulling off the scarf to reveal a closely-trimmed black beard and mustache, attached to a very handsome face. Wand out, he approached carefully, sidestepping the bubotuber and belladonna. "What's happened?"

"One of your students apparently fell off his broom over by the creature pond," said Gyurga, responding in Bulgarian.

"Probably practicing those prohibited tricks," added Stana.

Tanassov was already levitating the youth toward the castle, to the infirmary. As he strode along, with the veelas tripping lightly beside him, he growled, "If this were my student, he'd be sorry to be healed, because I'd put him right back in the infirmary. However, I don't recognize him…there's something familiar, but he's not a Durmstrang student."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Dimitar, what is Draco Malfoy doing in the infirmary?" Luna Lovegood strolled lazily to his desk, where he'd sat staring distractedly at the same page of parchment for well over half an hour.

Tanassov's head snapped up. "Malfoy? That is why he looks so familiar!" He motioned her over and she seated herself on his lap with his arm around her waist. Her blue eyes came to rest on him, caressing him without words, and he felt a tiny shudder. "I should have known him."

"It doesn't answer my question, love," Luna said sweetly, in her dream-like voice. "Why is he here, and how did he get hurt? I have to assume it wasn't the work of wrackspurts...though I suppose it could be. Combined with heliopaths, they can be downright dangerous."

"I do not know," Tanassov replied, heaving his shoulders in a shrug. He found her obsession with creatures he'd yet to make contact with endearing. "Dimna and her friends brought him to me, and we worked on him for hours while you were giving English lessons. How he came to be here is a mystery."

Luna's light brow dipped in concern. "Is he alright?"

There was a hesitation so slight most would not have noticed; Luna was not most people. "He will be. His injuries resemble those of a fall from a great height."

"There's something else," she prompted.

His eyes, tired and worried, softened when they lit upon her. "Claw marks on his stomach and ribs. Unless I am mistaken, made by dragon talons. It does not make sense. A dragon kills when cornered, or for food…I have not seen one maul like this."

"Have you contacted his family?" she asked.

"No," the man replied, shaking his head. "I would not know what to tell them. Does he wish to be found? I do not know. He is very far from home, Luna."

"When he wakes up, perhaps he will tell us," said Luna, cuddling in close and hugging Dimitar's neck. "I'm glad you were here to help him."

"I az sam dovolen, che ti si tuk da mi pomognesh, lyubov moya," (_And I'm glad you're here to help me, my love)_Tanassov murmured into her hair. "Nebesnata mi samovila." (_My heavenly veela)._

"Az razbiram poveche balgarski otkolkoto ti si mislish."_(I understand more Bulgarian than you think)_, Luna responded, smiling. "I appreciate the compliment."

"Dobre," _(Good)_ Tanassov said, smiling back. "Oshte po-dobre za men." _(Better for me.)_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Lucius and Narcissa had scarcely had a moment to rejoice in the news that Draco was probably alive, for Severus had been compelled to tell them the flip side: their eldest son was missing, and wanted in connection with a murder. And so Lucius found himself at a place he rarely frequented anymore, the Ministry of Magic. His number one lawyer, Mr. Norman, accompanied him to demand an audience with Minister Shacklebolt in order to denounce the charges leveled against his son.

A security officer stationed outside Shacklebolt's office held out a hand to Norman's chest, blocking his way. "The Minister agreed to see Malfoy. He didn't say anyone else is allowed."

"I represent both Mr. Malfoy and his son, Draco," Mr. Norman began.

"Don't care," said the other, bored and obviously not caring. "Malfoy's got five minutes, and you're wasting it for him."

Lucius, jaw clenched, nodded curtly at his attorney. "I'll speak to you later. Thank you for coming."

He entered the office and the door clicked shut behind him. Straight ahead, seated at the oversized mahogany desk that Lucius had purchased for Minister Fudge some years before—purely as an altruistic act, of course—sat Kingsley Shacklebolt. Over his work garb, he wore a bright teal robe with crimson stripes, and on his head, set jauntily to one side, was a red fez.

Any other day, Lucius would have had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting on the ensemble; some questionable choices in clothing simply begged to be maligned. However, this was not any other day. Draco being uppermost in Lucius' mind, he barely noticed the garish getup. "Minister, thank you for your time." Neither wizard made a move to shake hands.

"I presume you're here about the charges against Draco," said Kingsley.

"Naturally. You know as well as I do that my son is not a killer," said Lucius, gauging a strange look from Shacklebolt that appeared to be sizing him up accusingly. He'd seen the look far too often: after all, everyone _knew_ all Death Eaters were murderers, rapists, arsonists, and baby devourers, so Lucius and Draco must necessarily conform to the stereotype. A bit too forcefully he added, "He proved it when he couldn't kill Dumbledore!"

"I suppose you have a point," acknowledged Shacklebolt, inclining his head slightly. The fez did not so much as budge from its spot. "Perhaps the young witch he ran off with was the slayer."

"They found his wand!" Lucius exclaimed in exasperation. "What makes you think he wasn't a victim of foul play? If he'd left of his own volition, he most certainly would have taken his wand."

Unruffled, Shacklebolt pursed his lips and stared at Malfoy. Had he not considered every single one of those details before Lucius got here? The aurors had performed the _Prior_ _Incantato_ on the wand, which showed nothing malignant. And not to mention a wizard on the run—any wizard—did not make a getaway while blithely forgetting his wand. It posed a dilemma, not so much as to whether Draco was guilty, but as to what had become of him. The details of the case were still too sketchy to form a clear picture of events, and until they did, there wasn't much Kingsley could do.

"The Bulgarian Ministry issued the warrant, Mr. Malfoy. I have no authority to change that."

"My son is _missing_." His tone sounded pleading, though those ice cold eyes and haughty countenance remained steady. "Can't you send aurors to seek him?"

"Aurors _are_ trying to find him—"

"In order to arrest him," Lucius interrupted.

"Be that as it may, the problem is we don't know where to begin," said Kingsley. "He could, quite literally, be anywhere. Now if you don't mind, I am inundated with work. I'll contact the Bulgarian Minister with your concerns, but I can't promise anything."

"Thank you," said Lucius quietly. It wasn't what he'd hoped for, not even close, but it was something. Although it would be unprofessional for him to say so, the subtext beneath Shacklebolt's action was plain: he didn't believe Draco was guilty. And coming from Shacklebolt to a _Malfoy_, it meant a lot. "Good day, Minister."

He turned and left, blatantly ignoring the sneer thrown his way by the security officer, who'd evidently been listening in. One day, when things settled down, and Draco was home and safe, he'd make sure to find out the bloke's name. If perchance the man suffered a broken leg in an accident, or was mysteriously demoted, it would serve him right, wouldn't it?

The door to the nearest lift opened, and Lucius came face to face with Arthur Weasley. On a good day, he despised the sight of the redheaded buffoon; this was so far from a good day he could barely tolerate being in the same building. Twisting his mouth with disdain, he rolled his eyes and stepped aside, waving Weasley past.

Arthur walked out of the lift, and before Lucius had a chance to squeeze by him he said, "Word travels fast here. I heard about Draco. How does it feel having your son accused of murder?"

The grey eyes morphed to silvery steel colour, and it was all Lucius could do not to thump the prat upside the head with his cane. "How. Dare. You."

"When Percy was in this position after those Death Eaters broke out of Azkaban, I recall you wished him a long life in prison," said Arthur defiantly.

"As _I_ recall, you came to my home, accusing me of orchestrating the events," Lucius seethed back, taking one pace closer, his knuckles white from gripping his walking stick. "Should I be concerned that your son Charlie is involved in this? Perhaps you even put him up to it."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Arthur snapped, flushing so his hair and face matched. "We're not the Death Eaters."

In a blur of a movement, Lucius had Arthur by the front of his robes, his face mere inches from Weasley's, the serpent head of his cane under Weasley's chin, forcing his head up. Through clenched teeth Lucius hissed, "Suffice it to say if anything happens to my son, all hell will break loose. Take that however you like."

He thrust Arthur away from him, stormed into the lift, and punched the button for the Atrium.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Draco's whitish-blond eyelashes fluttered several times before opening. He gazed blearily about, uncomprehending. This place was not familiar, except for the smell and the white linens. A hospital…Hogwarts? No, this looked different, and he no longer attended Hogwarts.

Because it made him dizzy and a little nauseated to swivel his head, he laid it back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He should hurt—a lot. So why didn't he? In fact, the overwhelming sensation was one of numbness…and yet, he could move. He wiggled his fingers and toes to prove it to himself.

"Draco?" an ethereal voice chimed in the room. "I believe you're awake now." The voice had come closer, hung right over his face.

He opened his eyes again, and a shriek of alarm escaped him. Luna lurched backward with an echoing shriek, knocking against a tray holding a variety of medical implements and bandages. It crashed to the floor, the metal tools clanging and banging as they bounced on the floor. Then just as quickly the air was calm and quiet.

"Oops," she said. A wave of her wand returned everything to its proper location. She straightened and approached the bed once more, smiling.

"Where am I?" asked Draco.

"Durmstrang Institute infirmary," Luna answered, to his great relief. For a second he'd feared she'd captured him and was holding him for torture in revenge for what Voldemort had done to her in HIS house. "You've been badly hurt."

"What happened?"

"We were hoping you could tell us." Luna transfigured the next bed into a high, comfortable chair, and settled herself in it. "Some veelas found you, or you'd be dead, you know. You've got a concussion, two broken ribs, a broken arm, multiple lacerations, and a punctured pelvis and scrotum."

"Scrotum?" he repeated, wincing, feeling his face heat up.

"Your testicle sac," Luna offered, still wearing that smile which made her seem semi-stoned.

"I know what it is!" he barked, blushing furiously and averting his face. "I just don't want to hear you talking about it."

Luna shrugged, unperturbed. "It's just as well. Dimitar will be in shortly; I'm sure he'll clarify anything you need to know. I don't think it's affected your ability to get an erection or to sire children."

"Oh my God, Luna, shut up!" he howled, which only made his head start to throb. He could safely say discussing his private anatomy ranked high on the list of things he never, ever wanted to do with Luna Lovegood. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, one being the least desirable, this conversation ranked a zero!

"Luna, my dear, I see your friend is awake." Tanassov, dressed in black robes reminiscent of Snape's, only less roomy, strode across the floor in a few strides and took up position on the other side of Draco's bed, making him feel hemmed in.

_My dear?_ Draco pondered briefly. Ah, yes, they'd been together at the Snape/Young double wedding. He was rather surprised it had lasted this long. "Headmaster Tanassov," he said, struggling to lift his uncooperative arm to shake hands.

Tanassov pressed the arm back down. "It is injured, you must try not to move it." He then leaned in close and pried Draco's eye wide open to examine the pupil. He nodded to himself, looking satisfied. "How are you feeling? Sick? Pain?"

"Uh…kind of nauseated and dizzy," Draco responded.

"You have a concussion," said the Headmaster.

"Yes, Luna said…well, she recited a long list of injuries I received. I sound like a real mess," Draco said, grinning. He was about to ask why he didn't feel the pain that rightfully accompanied such things when Tanassov shoved a spoonful of shimmery yellow liquid at him. He dutifully swallowed it, and immediately felt a warmth rush through his body. Painkiller potions…oh, yeah. Nasty taste, but oh-so-delightfully effective.

Tanassov laid a hand on his shoulder, this time not in any attempt to determine his state of health. "Draco, we would like to know how you came here. What happened to you?"

Draco felt like he was floating; at the same time, his mind had never seemed sharper. "I was sneaking in to try communicating with Omen."

He didn't notice the queer glances passing back and forth between Luna and Tanassov. "Explain," said Tanassov's deep voice from somewhere far away and nearby at once.

"Omen—the black dragon at Borimetchka's camp." He also failed to see the note of recognition in Tanassov's face; the Headmaster knew that name. "I talk to dragons, you know." For some reason, this didn't seem an odd thing to proclaim.

"You talk to dragons?" Luna asked, leaning forward with interest. "Do they talk back?"

"Yes—no. Not in words. I see images in their minds." Draco focused on the wall opposite him; why did it appear to be breathing? "I wanted to try Omen, even though Bori said not to because he was too dangerous. When I got close, I sensed something bad. I started to back up and I tripped and fell. He charged me, stepped on my chest." The memory of that moment, the horrendous agony of his ribs snapping like twigs, made Draco grimace.

"I couldn't breathe or speak. I'd dropped my wand…he grabbed me and took to the air. I tried communicating, begging him to put me down, and I—I think it worked. He swooped down a long way till I was afraid we'd hit the trees, then he dropped me. I don't really remember anything after that."

"Would you like us to contact your family—or Borimetchka?" asked Tanassov.

Draco hesitated. If his parents discovered what had occurred, they'd not only forbid him to go back, they'd station guards on him to prevent it. They'd worried about him getting hurt, and this would more than make their case for them. As for Bori…he'd be pissed about losing his dragon, even if the black beast was untrainable. It was probably best to wait until he was well enough to go apologize and explain to the camp boss directly.

"No, thank you. I'd like to rest for now, if that's alright."

"You do need rest," Tanassov agreed. "Sleep now." He went around the bed and took Luna's hand; together they exited the hospital wing. He and the resident medi-witch would take shifts checking on the boy throughout the evening and night.

Draco shut his eyes and sighed. He felt so very tired. As he drifted into a drug-induced slumber, he smiled. Thank goodness this ordeal was over, and soon he'd be mended, and everything would be okay…


	33. Any Way the Wind Blows

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 33 (Any Way the Wind Blows)

**December 21, 1944**

Borgin and Burkes, despite being a seedy shop located in a disreputable alley, did a good business, enough to keep on the new hire with no loss of revenue. In fact, they turned a tidy profit. Even if their merchandise appealed only to select clientele, that clientele was willing to pay top dollar for rare or hard to acquire commodities—and Tom Riddle had proven himself capable of procuring such commodities on a consistent basis, at minimal cost to the store owners. An employee like that didn't just walk into one's shop every day, so if he was occasionally late, or if he had a friend or two visiting, who were they to complain?

Tom settled himself onto the tall stool behind the counter, hunched over a pair of jade dewdrop earrings on silver hooks. His wand poked at them periodically as he whispered incantations. Ordinary jewelry did not excite his interest, but there was nothing ordinary about these. Through the ages, every woman (or man, the legend hadn't been explicit) who'd ever worn them had suffered psychotic episodes for weeks afterward. Once disposing of the gems, the bouts diminished and eventually disappeared, leaving mayhem and carnage in their wake.

That alone hadn't been enough to pique Tom; many cursed articles followed a similar pattern. These earrings, however, were different by their very nature: they were a pair. The tale made clear that both items must be worn to produce the effect, and therein lay the mystery Tom meant to solve. What type of curse had the capacity to divide in this manner? And if it could be thus divided, could separate, unrelated objects be cursed to act when brought into proximity with one another? It would be a useful, malicious spell to add to his already bloated arsenal of dark spells.

He looked up briefly from his work when the door opened, bringing in a blast of frigid winter air, and promptly did a doubletake. He hopped off the stool and hurried round the counter, frowning even as his heart did a strange little leap. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too, Tom," Minerva retorted, stifling a smile. Her cheeks held a rosy blush from the cold. "I was in the area, and I knew you worked here, so…"

"So you came to visit?" he asked, not anticipating an answer to such an obvious question. "You shouldn't be down here in Knockturn Alley."

Minerva's spine stiffened, and a flash in her eyes made it plain she'd have none of that. Indignantly she said, "Who are you to tell me what I should do or not do? And _you're_ here."

Lowering his voice and softening his tone, Tom replied, "I work here. This area isn't safe for a pretty girl. There's a lot of riff-raff." He surprised himself by the 'pretty girl' comment, for he'd intended only to charm her, and yet…he really meant it.

The blush in her cheeks deepened, and this time with no relation to the cold. "Well, I'm here now. We may as well talk." She glanced about the empty shop as if to imply he wasn't swamped.

Tom crossed his arms, half smiling, and leaned back against the counter. "What would you like to discuss? The price of reanimated mummy hands? A special poison for a loved one?"

"Somehow I think you know," she said softly. Her eyes met his, and he quickly looked away.

Why hadn't he utilized this opportunity to read her thoughts? For anyone else he would have done it without a single qualm. "Tell me."

"You kissed me the last day of term…your last day of school, Tom." One hand crunched a section of her skirt over and over into a nervous bundle. She licked her lips, waiting for him to reply, but he did not. "Why?"

A long, uncomfortable silence ensued. Tom couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear, even if it were true—which it was not! He did _not_ love her, he did _not_ have an infatuation, he….he didn't, that was all! He cleared his throat and said in a calm voice, "Call it a moment of weakness."

"Weakness?" she repeated, looking almost scandalized. "Friendship isn't a weakness, and neither is love. They strengthen a person."

"Attachments create vulnerability. How can that be construed as strength?"

The witch shook her head, not quite believing what she was hearing. "So what are you saying? You were playing with me?"

"No." He dropped his arms to his sides, fighting an inane urge to go to her. What the hell was wrong with him? No one else incited such ambivalent, infuriatingly sappy sentiments in him; why did she? Merlin's beard, he actually wanted to kiss the wench again! "I wasn't playing. But…" Tense pause. It had to be said, it had to be done—sooner rather than later, before her claws had dug too deeply into him and he became one of those pitiful, disgusting wizards who mooned over a girl, who '_loved'_ until there was nothing left of himself. He would sooner _avada kedavra _himself before he'd let that happen! "I can't see you anymore, Minerva. I have to focus on my goals." _And I find that you distract me more and more each time I see you._

"What goals?" Minerva gestured with an angry wave of her hand around the shop. Tears hung in the corners of her eyes, defying gravity as long as they could. "Working here? You're brilliant, Tom. You're exceptional in so many ways, you could do so much more with your life." The tears coursed down her cheeks, and he averted his eyes.

_You're brilliant and exceptional as well._ Had he said that out loud? No? What a relief! "I intend to. One day, all wizards and witches will know my name. I promise you that."

"At what cost? Your humanity?" She turned and fled to the door, but he cut her off.

"Let me escort you to Diagon Alley."

"That won't be necessary." She shoved him aside and flung open the door. "I hope you're happy by yourself, because with your attitude you'll always be alone." With that she ran out into the alley, where snow had begun falling.

Tom chased her out only past the door frame. From what he could see, there were few people hanging about. She'd be safe enough, not that he should care. He went back inside, letting the door close softly. It was better this way. She clouded his mind; he didn't need that. If she thought like he did, maybe…. It didn't matter. He didn't need her, he didn't need anybody. Damned distractions.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 3, 2000**

_December 21, 1944_

_ It's been six months since I kissed Minerva, which was obviously a grave mistake. I could have forgotten her more easily if I never saw her again, but then she had to show up. Why did she come back? She said she was in the area, yet she had no real reason to be there on Christmas holiday. Certainly she purchased her school supplies in August. Did she come by the shop then, too? I may have been out of the shop, possibly acquiring some trinket or other. I suppose I ought to be flattered that she hasn't stopped thinking of me, and yet it's provoked so many latent thoughts—feelings, if you will. It's disturbing._

_ I told her I can't see her anymore; she was hurt. It's for the best, for me anyway. And she's only sixteen—no, seventeen. She probably apparated here, so she has to be seventeen now. I never asked her when her birthday was. It doesn't matter. The point is, she'll forget me in time; __love__ is like that. It's transient and silly, and why anyone searches for it is beyond me. Everyone would be better off to concentrate on getting ahead instead of drooling over that which makes them weak. But it's another thing that sets me apart from them._

"Severus, may I interrupt?" Minerva stuck her bunned head across the empty space where Aline usually sat at the staff table, and Severus automatically slapped the book shut like a boy who'd been caught looking at a dirty magazine.

"Yes, Minerva, what is it?"

Her eyes flicked down to the diary then back up to him. "No title. Yet it seems to be a fascinating read. You haven't spoken a word all through breakfast."

"It's not a romance novel, if that's what you're implying," he shot back. Only years of guarding his emotions kept his face blank as the horror of what he'd said struck him. A romance novel? He truly was losing it.

She gave him a strange, head-tilting, eye-narrowing, scrutinizing stare. "You are a very peculiar man, Severus Snape."

"Is there any particular reason for the intrusion, or do you merely enjoy gaining my attention in order to insult me?" He slipped the leather bound diary off the table and into his pocket. Perhaps it was best he read it at home or in his office, where he had relative privacy. He'd only been trying to take his mind off Draco, off the constant wondering where he was and if he was alright. So far Lucius had checked all his properties, to no avail; the aurors had been searching Britain and Bulgaria, without success. It was nerve racking.

"I meant to ask you when Aline is coming back—not that Bayly isn't doing a splendid job, of course. We all miss her here," said Minerva, easing back into her own space amid the din of the Great Hall.

"Her plan is to return in January for second term," Severus replied. Aline would be pleased to hear she was missed. "As you know, I've been teaching seventh year Potions. When Aline comes back, she'll teach fifth through seventh, and Bayly will continue with the younger students. I dare say my Potions pupils will welcome the change." He smirked at the thought of the little brats doing a dance of joy for Aline.

Minerva was tempted to say they'd think no such thing, they loved him as their instructor, but Snape was too clever to fall for that lie. She was spared having to say anything at all when Filius Flitwick toddled over, looking very serious.

He tossed a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the table between them. "Have you heard? Draco Malfoy is wanted for murder in Bulgaria."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Dimitar, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't this say, 'Malfoy Heir Accused of Murder'?" Luna held out the Bulgarian wizard newspaper to Tanassov, who glanced at it, tightened his jaw, and nodded.

He took the paper and scanned the article quickly. The journalist offered no proof, no evidence at all to support the claim, other than the fact that a man at the dragon camp had been killed, and Draco was missing. If Draco's story was true—and it was, Tanassov knew, since his painkillers had been laced with Veritaserum—someone had murdered that man after Malfoy was carried away by Omen. Had that person witnessed the incident and decided to use it to his or her advantage? If anyone had inside information on this situation, it would be the camp director, Boris Balakov; it was high time the two got together to sort out what in blazes was going on.

"Luna, will you fetch Stoyan for me? I need to write a letter."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Dragomir felt lonely. With all the extra people wandering through the camp, you'd think at least one of them could take the time to pet him or play with him, but noooo. They chattered away at each other and ran to and fro, always concentrating on the cooked human and the spot where he'd died. Cooked meat didn't even taste good, which begged the question of why they found it so enthralling. Even Bori was too busy to do more than nuzzle him and scratch his floppy ears.

So the little dragon sulked about the porch of Borimetchka's cabin. The girl was gone, too, the one who'd commandeered his bed; she hadn't even taken her junk out of his room. No loss there…well, Bori seemed very sad and upset over it, and when Bori was sad, he was sad. He laid his neck on the edge of the wood, his head dangling off the end.

At last he flopped off the porch onto his stumpy legs, looking for something fun to do. In a half-trot, half-flight he circled the cabin twice, but his young wings weren't strong enough to hold him aloft for true flying yet. When he came to a stumbling halt, a thought struck him and he ducked under the porch where he hid sometimes. Maybe Bori would come seeking him. As he lay there in the dirt, he spied something slender that hadn't been there last time he crawled under the porch; out of curiosity he sniffed it.

Well, of all the nerve! It wasn't enough that Oksana had stolen his room and Bori's affections, now she was leaving her crap all over the place! Dragomir fixed a wicked glare on the wand. He could burn it up…but if he started the porch on fire, Bori would yell at him. Easily remedied—he'd take it to a clearing and torch it.

He picked up the wand in his teeth and scuttled out from under the porch just as Bori approached. There was nowhere to hide it, what could he do? Maybe if he told Bori he was tired of Oksana's clutter, _he'd_ get rid of it. Dragomir dropped the wand at the big wizard's feet and proceeded to whinny his complaints in the back of his throat.

To his dismay, Bori delicately picked up the wand between two fingers with an expression of dread, and stared at it for a long moment while he held it at arm's length as if afraid it would bite him. "Drago, where did you find this?"

The dragon cast him a withering glare. Had he or had he not just seen Dragomir coming from under the porch? Drago gurgled and spit a puff of fire at him, then jerked his head to the spot from which he'd recently emerged. Bori bent down to peer under the porch, though there was nothing to see. He dropped heavily to one knee, his face pale; Dragomir shuffled up against him in commiseration. Yes, Oksana was awful to leave her rubbish strewn about, but she was gone now. Cheer up.

"I must speak to the aurors," he murmured. Giving the dragon a few absentminded pats, he got to his feet and called out to a young man several meters away.

"Yes, Bori?" the wizard said, walking up to stand beside him.

Borimetchka held out the wand, his hand trembling. "This is Oksana's. My dragon found it under the porch. Why would she leave it behind?"

The Bulgarian auror took out his own wand, grimacing at the dragon spit covering the shaft of Oksana's. He touched the tips together and said, "_Prior Incantato_." The image of soapy dishes in a bin floated out. She'd used it to wash dishes, certainly not something she'd be doing directly after murdering a man. This whole situation was becoming more obfuscated at every turn. Slowly he admitted, "This was not the wand used to kill Artem."

"So where is she? Does the killer have her?" Bori gulped, his eyes registering close to desperation. Up to now he'd reluctantly allowed himself to entertain the idea of her guilt, as much as it pained him; now he felt ashamed of himself and frightened for her.

"I don't know. We can't jump to conclusions."

_Unless those conclusions involve accusations of murder against a missing man and woman, neither of whom have wands!_ Bori growled inwardly. "Her clothes and jewelry are still here, I told you all about it before! What woman plans a murder without planning her getaway?"

"Maybe she left everything to throw us off the track—including the wand," suggested the auror. He flinched and took a step backward at the expression brewing on the big man's face. "I'll go tell my boss." He turned and hastened away.

Bori had barely slumped down on the porch step when an enormous eagle swooped over the tree line and right for him. Dragomir snapped excitedly at it while it circled overhead screaming crossly. "Drago, down! That is Stoyan, Tanassov's bird."

The dragon sullenly left off trying to maim the eagle, which touched down in the dirt and proceeded to hack and cough so hard Bori thought he might be choking. A prolonged series of gags followed, a few more gut wrenching coughs, and the eagle regurgitated a grey cylinder half the size of Bori's pinkie finger. It then flapped onto the porch railing and looked down its beak at Drago, daring him to try anything.

Borimetchka picked up the tube, wiped the dirt and mucous on his pantleg, and snapped open the capsule. He unrolled a small parchment to read:

_Bori,_

_I am awaiting the dragon scales you promised for my potions. _

_I'm afraid black scales are not acceptable, and could be a _

_dangerous omen._

_Dimna dropped off a package for the infirmary yesterday. _

_I thought you might like to view the contents; it may _

_contain something you're lacking._

_D. Tanassov_

What the hell? He'd delivered those scales as promised not two weeks ago! And they weren't black—ooooh. Tanassov was trying to tell him something, coded in case anyone else saw the note. He'd mentioned Omen; had he seen the escaped dragon? If Omen was hanging around Durmstrang, it posed great peril to the students. The veela Dimna left something in the infirmary…medicinal herbs? Why would Bori be interested in that? He and his men didn't ordinarily treat themselves, they routinely went to Tanassov for burns and contusions incurred in their line of work. Well there was one sure way to find out: he'd need to make a visit to Durmstrang to see the Headmaster.

Leaving Charlie in care of Dragomir and the camp, Bori casually showed the letter to the aurors before taking his leave and apparating to Durmstrang with a large jar of non-black scales. A trusted seventh year student met him at the gate and escorted him to Tanassov's office, where the latter rose to greet him. Bori responded with a bow exactly like the one the student had made before excusing himself.

"Boris, it's good to see you," said Tanassov in Bulgarian. A dark eyebrow rose as he studied the jar held in the crook of the burly man's elbow. "I thought you understood my letter."

"I did," grinned Bori, setting the jar on the Headmaster's desk. "The aurors might have suspected I was up to mischief if I didn't bring it. Have you seen Omen?"

"No, but I've heard a lot about him. We'll get to that very soon."

"You said there was something you want to show me," Bori reminded him.

Tanassov returned a droll expression. "Want to? I'm not so sure. However, I believe it is necessary. Come, he's in the infirmary. We are both most anxious to hear what tales you bring."

_What? He? The dragon? Not likely, Tanassov said he'd not seen the dragon._ While he was thinking, Tanassov swept past him out of the room. When he didn't move fast enough to suit the Headmaster, Tanassov called back, "I sincerely hope you don't expect me to drag you there by the earlobe!" Bori picked up the pace, his immense strides soon overtaking the other.

He stopped dead in the doorway to the infirmary, his eyes popping from their sockets, his mouth agape. This was not what he'd anticipated, not even a vague facsimile. "Draco?" His feet managed to shuffle in a few more steps, and he glanced wildly about the room. "Vhat are you doing here? Is Oksana here?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

A short while later, after Draco had repeated his story for Borimetchka, complete with profuse apologies for losing the dragon, and after Bori had given an account of what was happening in the camp, including Snape's visit, the three men looked around at one another, not quite sure where to go from here.

"Artem is really dead?" Draco asked again, hoping it was all a very bad joke. He liked Artem, even if he was a mud—muggleborn.

Bori's great head bobbed slowly. "Yes. And Oksana missing, but they think—they not even look for her." The last part he spat in a bitter tone.

"My parents must be frantic," said Draco. "I need to fire-call them—"

"No." Tanassov held up a hand to silence any dissent. "Aurors are looking for you, they will certainly be monitoring the floo of your home. I can send word by my eagle, or send someone to apparate there."

"Vhy they haf not found him here?" asked Bori. "At this distance, a Point Me spell vill vork."

"Not if Point Me spells have been scrambled," said Tanassov with a tired shrug. "Along with anti-apparition barriers, Durmstrang is hidden by a variety of wards and spells. He is safe here. If he is somehow discovered, I—as a medi-wizard—have the authority to deny them access to him on medical grounds."

"Bori?" It was Draco. "I don't know if this is relevant, but at my last camp there was a man who hated me and thought I was trying to steal Oksana from him. You might want to talk to him—Oleksandr, but they call him Sashko."

"I vill do that. Thank you." He nodded to Draco, then to Tanassov he said in Bulgarian, "If there's nothing else, I'll go." He bowed from the waist, spun around, and departed in a hurry.

"Headmaster, I know your students are trained to bow, but why does Borimetchka do it?" asked Draco, looking puzzled.

Tanassov gave one of his rare smiles, something his pupils certainly didn't see much of. "Boris Balakov was an unruly seventh year student when I began teaching here at the age of twenty-three. I had just become a licensed medi-wizard, with no teaching experience. He thought he could disrupt my class at will because I was new and he was huge. For some reason the other professors did not confront him; he expected the same from me. We both soon learned that if you give a boy one thorough, well-deserved paddling, you will earn his respect."

"You whipped him?" Draco gasped, appalled and amused at once. Tanassov was tall, but Bori was a good head taller, and carried a great deal more weight.

Tanassov nodded, then chuckled. "Perhaps because I did not know any better. I had to use a sticking charm to hold him over my desk. However, the thrashing did make him behave, and it cemented my reputation as a—how do you say—hardass?"

"Yeah, that's kind of the impression I've had of you. I mean, not in a bad way," Draco added in a rush. Never a good idea to get the person in charge of curing you in a pissy mood.

"Sleep now, Draco. I will send word to your parents of what has happened."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

As a rule, having a flighty ex-student interrupt his lesson would put Snape in bad humour; today was no different, especially in light of the past two days' grisly and shocking events. He stormed out of his Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, eyes like molten balls of black lava, fully prepared to haul the intruder over the coals.

"Miss Lovegood, if you do not have an exemplary reason for disrupting my class, I will personally transfigure you into a pixie and feed you to the giant squid. Is that understood?"

"Quite," she agreed, gazing off down the corridor. "I wonder what it would be like to be a pixie?"

"You have until the count of three to tell me what it is you came here for, or you will summarily find out," he replied waspishly, wand raised. "One."

Luna leaned in so close she appeared to be kissing him as she whispered, "Draco is alive. He's at Durmstrang."

Severus forgot to count to two. He grasped her shoulders, giving a shake that made her head bobble. "What do you know?"

She pulled out of his grasp, giving a reproachful stare. "I know that I can't floo into Malfoy Manor, but you can. Will you take me?"

"If I do, you'll tell us all you know?" He immediately regretted the question.

"Of course not, Professor. That could take days, or weeks—"

"Luna!" It felt odd to call a student by the given name. "Focus, please. Allow me to dismiss my class, and then I'll take you." He spun to open his door; before doing so he murmured, "Thank you for coming."

Less than a minute later, Snape and Luna were barreling down the hallway toward the Headmaster's office—more aptly, Severus had the young woman by the hand and was fairly sprinting, with her in tow. His robes billowed majestically, and for once he failed to appreciate it. He hauled her to the fireplace, tossed in a dash of floo powder, and the pair were whisked to Malfoy Manor. Another thirty seconds later, Lucius and Narcissa appeared in the main sitting area, both looking the worse for wear, red-eyed, tired, exuding anxiety.

Lucius held tight to Narcissa as he choked out, "Miss Lovegood, you have news for us?" From his expression, it was apparent he expected bad news.

"You really do have a lovely home," Luna remarked, smiling. Niceties should be observed, the world was going to hell in a handbasket without them.

"Luna!" Severus barked. "Tell them!"

"Draco is at Durmstrang. He's been injured by a dragon, or a fall—both, actually—but he's going to be alright," she said.

Narcissa burst into tears of relief and sank to the floor. Lucius helped her up and over to the sofa, where he sat beside her, not far from tears himself.

"How do you know this, Miss Lovegood?" Lucius asked.

"Because I've seen him and talked to him," she said simply. "Dimitar is taking excellent care of him."

"The charges," Narcissa managed, dabbing a sodden handkerchief futilely at her eyes. "He—he would never kill that man."

"I agree," Luna responded. "We don't know who did it, yet we know it wasn't Draco. He wanted to be sure you were informed so you wouldn't worry."

"Thank you," said Narcissa, holding out a hand to her, which Luna took.

"Miss Lovegood, won't you sit down and tell us everything?" invited Lucius, gesturing to the chair nearby, while Severus made desperate slashing motions across his throat in the background.

Too late, she'd started talking. Why couldn't Lucius have specified _what_ she was to talk about? Now they'd have to hear the roundabout version of events, spiced with as many inane images as Luna could manage without actually causing Snape to throttle her. He sighed. He may as well make himself comfortable while gleaning pertinent bits out of her sure-to-be-convoluted-and-long story. He flopped into an armchair to listen. In any case, this time it was good news; they'd had precious little of that lately.


	34. All's Fair in Love and War

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 34 (All's Fair in Love and War)

**January 10, 1996**

At the risk of understatement, in any part of the northern world, January is a cold month. Riding in tiny boats in the middle of frigid waters, headed toward the wee island housing Azkaban, it was bloody freezing. Yaxley and his cohorts Nott, Jugson, Selwyn, Macnair, and Avery, Jr. shivered uncontrollably despite warming charms cast over themselves. The half hour ride seemed interminable; were it not for the anti-apparition barriers surrounding the island and extending almost to the mainland coast, they'd have simply apparated over. Then again, if it were so easy, the convicts of Azkaban could apparate _out_.

When they were nearly upon the barren rock posing as an island, Yaxley lifted his wand and a string of sparks flew into the air: red, yellow, green, red, yellow, green. He wasn't altogether sure Dementors could distinguish colors, but he wanted to make sure they'd been noticed. There was no real fear of humans seeing the spectacle this far out in the sea, unless perhaps inmates looking out their slats for windows. As far as he was aware, the only humans (aside from prisoners) who ever came here were aurors who brought prisoners in and took them out, and those who made food deliveries weekly…no guards to contend with, per se.

Macnair squinted a bit as he pointed up and to the right. "Is that them?" he called out.

The rest followed his gaze to where the sky appeared ever more dark and somber. What seemed to be overlarge bats had begun streaming from a corner window, black fabric flapping; they headed upward and north, as if there was much further north to go before rounding the pole and heading south. Somehow it seemed appropriate for them to seek out cold.

"Yeah, that's them," Yaxley hollered back, relieved. Dementors were not something to be trifled with, and he felt extremely glad the deal struck with Lord Voldemort had been honoured.

His canoe-like boat drifted to the wooden dock, where he used a magical cord to tie it fast. The other men followed his lead, and they carefully crawled up onto the dock from the choppy waves attempting to overturn them. Wands at ready, they approached the gate; all together they aimed and shot a spell that blew the thick metal gate off its hinges. It creaked, wobbled, and toppled backward with a thunderous crash. The wizards marched over top of it, into the heart of Azkaban.

Because they had no way of knowing where their companions were being held, they'd have to check the place cell by cell. As agreed, Yaxley took the left wing, Selwyn the right; on the second level, Nott went left and Macnair right; and on the third level, Jugson and Avery divided up.

Yaxley walked along the lengthy row of stone cells with bars on the front, all facing the corridor in order to discourage conversation or human contact of any kind. He peered at each person; with the extent of filth, their hair long and tangled, their beards matted, they all rather looked alike. When the inmates saw a wizard instead of a Dementor, they assumed him to be an auror—until he laid eyes on his old friend Antonin Dolohov, who rose in excitement. A quick unlocking charm was all he needed to make the door swing open, and the convict was free.

"Damn, it's good to see you," Dolohov choked out. His voice sounded rough, as if it had not been used in a long time.

"Go. Meet us at the gate," Yaxley said, jerking a thumb down the corridor.

Requiring no more incentive, Dolohov bolted out and ran. Yaxley continued down the line, only now the cacophony of voices begging to be set free was deafening. Staunchly ignoring them, he resumed his search for Voldemort's followers. In the very last cell, Rookwood stood at the bars, straining to see what was going on. When Yaxley saw the stooped frame and pockmarked face above the grizzled beard, he motioned for the man to step back—just in case the spell went awry. No telling what kind of sick jokes aurors might play on unsuspecting jailbreakers.

Together they hurried to the meeting point, where Dolohov and Rabastan Lestrange were waiting. Moments later, Bellatrix and Rodolphus joined them. Within two minutes, a group of ten convicts huddled together with their rescuers, all talking animatedly at once. Rodolphus was hugging Bella, his eyes closed and his face almost dreamy; it had been fourteen very long years since he'd felt a human touch. Bella seemed more interested in finding out where the master was.

"Shut it!" Yaxley bellowed. They fell silent, though throughout the prison the despairing voices of other inmates wafted in to them. "You can hug or snog or shag each other later, for all I care. Right now, we've got to liberate your wands."

Travers looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "We were sentenced to life. Why would they have our wands? They probably snapped them."

"The dark lord was informed by the Dementors that all wands are stowed in an office on the first level. I'd take every last one if I could, but they're spelled so only the original owner can pick them up."

So saying, he stalked past the wing of cells to a blue metal door. Of course, it was locked. Not in the mood to waste time, he blasted the knob and lock, leaving a gaping hole which he used to pull open the door. Inside the surprisingly spacious room, on the wall opposite an evidently unused desk, hung a massive cabinet with a glass front; inside were hundreds of wands, lined up end to end, and one right under another—testimony to the number of inmates who had died while incarcerated here, and hence had never retrieved them.

Yaxley shattered the glass with a curse, and the escapees stepped eagerly forward to examine the wands, to locate their own. Bella was the first to find hers, and she snatched it out of the cabinet and held it to her chest, stroked it lovingly, and pointed it around for the sheer joy of having it in her hand again. A sudden _Incendio_ set the desk on fire, but as it was surrounded by stone, it posed no danger to the occupants of Azkaban. Yaxley could swear Bella was talking to the wand like a long lost friend, though he kept his mouth shut. She'd been bitchy and nutty _before_ Azkaban…no need to test her so soon.

Once the last man had recovered his wand, the entire group proceeded to the boats, which held only four people apiece. As they moved, Yaxley explained the plan: at the designated moment, when they cleared the wards, they were to apparate to the dark lord, show their appreciation for being set at liberty, and get rid of that godawful stench that _scourgifying_ obviously was unable to eradicate. Five or six hot baths, maybe…

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_January 10, 1996_

_ The mass escape of my followers from Azkaban was a huge success, naturally, since I planned it. I am very pleased with the outcome. Yaxley led a group in to extract them, and they are now here at my castle. When he returned, I used Legilimency in order to view the proceedings, as my presence on scene was not vital. _

_ I called together fourteen, including Yaxley, and instructed him to select five for the mission. I found it quite interesting to note in his mind the covert reasoning Yaxley used in choosing the Death Eaters to accompany him. Milton Avery, Eiros' father, was rejected on account of age…interesting because Avery is a year younger than Yaxley! The Carrow brother and sister he deemed too dubious, perhaps wanting to make names for themselves without evidence of competence. Crabbe and Goyle are dolts; sadly, I concur with that estimation. Gibbon volunteered that he gets seasick, which put him out of the running. Rowle is a loose cannon, unpredictable—again, I must agree. And Malfoy…Yaxley just hates him, no other motive required. They've had animosity from the time Lucius joined us and Yaxley tried to rape him. I can't say I blame Malfoy for his hostility, all things considered._

_ Yaxley chose Macnair for his dueling skills and lack of queasiness over killing, Eiros Avery for similar reasons. Nott is steady and good in a fight. Apparently Selwyn and Jugson became default participants because they were the least objectionable options. It's good to get inside my minions' heads every now and again to view the working of their minds. Very enlightening._

_ I don't need to get inside Bellatrix's head; she lets me know what she's thinking from the off. I did miss her. She'll be such a help in the coming war. My soldiers have returned to me…it's time to set the works in motion for my ultimate victory._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 4, 2000**

The Malfoys were being watched. Not that it was anything unusual, for wealthy, influential people tended to stir up crowds, and they'd gotten used to that ages ago. No, this was a different sort of observation, the kind that made the small hairs on the back of one's neck stand on end, the kind that boded ill. Lucius instinctively gripped the head of his cane, sensing the comfort the closeness of his wand offered.

With one arm supporting Ladon, who was outfitted in a miniature version of his own robes, Lucius swept an imperious glance over the throng of people milling in Vertik Alley, quickly sizing them up, assessing the threat. None were overtly staring—or at least had the decency to avert their eyes when Malfoy's gaze washed over them—though more than a few cast condemning or even pitying looks in their direction. It made Lucius seethe inside. Apparently everyone still read and believed whatever rubbish the _Daily Prophet_ cared to spew. Was there no one willing to look beyond the defamed Malfoy name, to judge Draco's situation based on merit and facts rather than conjecture?

Then again, perhaps that feeling of being studied had nothing to do with the peons; perhaps it was in response to aurors assigned to keep tabs on the family in the highly unlikely event they'd prove stupid enough to meet with their missing-and-presumed-guilty-of-murder son in a public place. Honestly, the blatant transparency of the Magical Law Enforcement made it more difficult by the minute to understand how they ever managed to apprehend suspects. Lucius locked his eyes on a lone woman sitting at a small table outside an ice cream parlour, nibbling at a cone.

"Ice cream!" Ladon squealed excitedly, patting his father's locks. "I want!"

"You haven't had lunch yet," Lucius responded absently.

"She's an auror," Narcissa remarked softly as she calmly switched Khala to her other arm, resting the baby on her hip and leaving her wand hand free.

Impressed, Lucius asked, "You've seen her before?"

"No. But I can tell." Back straight, head up, she marched on past the shop with her husband at her side. They had every right to a life; they would not cower or hide in the manor simply because someone made up a lie about Draco. To hell with what people thought!

"Love." Lucius had slowed down when they neared the restaurant, but Narcissa plowed on. "Darling!"

Narcissa halted and spun on the spot, her sky blue dress whirling round her thighs. Smiling sheepishly, she minced over to him, enjoying the way his eyes followed the sway of her hips. "Sorry, I was preoccupied."

"But still beautiful," he cooed in her ear.

"Mama's beautiful," Ladon repeated, grinning at his mother and struggling to be free of Lucius so he could reach his arms around the woman's head.

Khala, who was being crunched between them, shoved Ladon's arm off her neck. "My mama," she said, dipping her wispy blond brows.

"Mine," Ladon insisted. He balled a tiny fist, and barely missed whacking the little girl when Lucius swung him away. The blow slapped his father in the back.

"That is enough, young man. You and Khala will share your mother. And you do not hit your sister."

Ladon stuck out his lower lip in a pout and wrinkled his nose at his sister. Khala thought it most entertaining, and her body shook with her giggles. Being the good natured boy he was, Ladon forgot his grudge and joined in her laughter.

"Shall we, my love?" Lucius offered his arm to Narcissa, and the doorman opened the door to the restaurant for them.

Later that afternoon, once they'd gone home and put the children down for a nap, Lucius and Narcissa snuggled up together on their bed for their own manner of relaxation. Now that they knew Draco was alive and on the mend—and not connected to the murder of that poor dragon handler, though neither had contemplated the idea of his guilt to begin with—life could go on with a tremendous sigh of relief.

With her body pressed to his, Narcissa snogged the wizard until both were breathless. At the sensation of a bulge in his trousers, a hardness against her hip, she smiled to herself. It made her feel special and desirable to be able to arouse him so easily. And then it happened. The bulge was…vibrating? That had never happened before!

Narcissa pulled away in alarm, her blue eyes wide. "Lucius, what is that? It's not your—you—it's moving," she stammered.

His face flaming, Lucius rolled over right off the bed, his hair disheveled and his hand thrust into his pocket. "Nothing, dear. It's nothing." His half-hearted smile might fool a simpleton, but Narcissa hardly fit into that category.

"Lucius Malfoy, don't you lie to me!" She sat up, glaring for all she was worth. "You promised you'd never lie to me."

"Well, the thing is…er…I, um…I don't believe I can properly explain," he answered. He'd begun easing backward toward the bathroom.

In a flash that would make a cheetah proud, Narcissa leapt off the bed. Lucius turned and bolted for the loo, with Narcissa literally on his heels. She tackled him like a hefty linebacker plowing down a newbie quarterback, and he fell face down on the carpet, sprawled comically with his wife astride him, fishing her hand into his pocket.

She wrenched a hard black object the size of her palm out and held it aloft for inspection, her jaw dropping slightly in wonder mixed with trepidation. Lucius took the opportunity to buck her off his back and roll over; while she was off balance he snatched at the strange item as Narcissa flailed and kicked at him.

"Give it!" he ordered. He'd nearly got her pinned down when she grabbed ahold of something far more precious to him and squeezed. He inhaled a tiny 'peep', and forthwith stopped struggling. "Alright, I quit. Let go."

"I don't think so," she replied, narrowing her eyes and giving the teensiest twist to let him know she meant business. "What is this thing?"

"A…mobile phone," he uttered. He dared not try to pull away, lest his family jewels suffer the consequences.

"A what?"

"Phone. It's…" He grimaced, though the pain was more mental than bodily related. "It's muggle technology to talk with others. Mr. Norman and Romulus Young convinced me to use it."

Unless Narcissa missed her guess, Lucius looked positively mortified to be caught with this non-wizard contraption. It didn't make sense. "I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," she said.

Lucius gave a heavy sigh. "About a year ago, when it was still so hard to battle and finesse my way out of the Death Eater pit to climb back to our rightful place on the social ladder, I started trading in the muggle stock market to make money—"

"The muggle _what_?" Narcissa echoed, bewildered.

"I invest money in muggle enterprises," Lucius admitted, hanging his head. Then he added defensively, "It's for you and the children."

"And what has that got to do with _this_?" She gave the phone a little shake.

"My lawyers and advisors can contact me at once, I don't need to be home for a fire-call. I'm able to discuss business and legal matters wherever I am, so I don't lose out on a good deal because of a slow owl or someone else swooping in to make a deal ahead of me. And I've made loads of money!" He tried to look at her, but he couldn't. All his life he'd railed against everything muggle, and here he'd proven himself a hypocrite. How could Narcissa ever think the same way about him as she used to? His shoulders slumped and he said with a defeated air, "Now you hate me, don't you?"

Still lying on the floor, with her husband straddling her waist, Narcissa let go of his testicles to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down to her. "How could I hate you, Lucius? You're doing your best to help your family. It must have been very hard for you to decide to use this…phone…thing."

"You don't know how hard," he agreed, nodding and staring into her eyes. "I resisted it for a long time, but they kept harping at me. If you want me to stop, I will."

Long, nerve racking pause. Lucius was doing what amounted in his own eyes to shaming himself to earn a living—not that they needed the money, but that wasn't the point. He'd been brought up to provide for his family, to use his resources to make more wealth. That is precisely what he was doing, to the best of his ability. This contraption didn't hurt anything, did it? After all, as it stood they weren't wholly detached from the muggle world; they'd eaten muggle food like Oreos on occasion. This device was for communication, not to undermine their society. Did being pureblood mean they had to forego opportunities to get ahead? As long as no one found out, what was the harm?

"You can keep it under two conditions," said Narcissa at last. "The children can't know, and you have to show me how it works."

"Done," he whispered as his lips grazed hers. "I love you, Narcissa Black Malfoy."

"You'd better," she whispered back. She let the mobile phone drop onto the floor, the better to grab her husband's rear end with both hands. They could worry about the muggle thingy later.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Sirius leaned across Daphne's lap to shout to Astoria, who sat on her other side at the Quidditch match between Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies. "How are you enjoying it so far?"

Astoria gave an unenthusiastic smile and shrugged. "It's good. I knew Oliver Wood at Hogwarts…well, I knew who he was." She pointed at the navy blue-robed keeper for Puddlemere, who at the moment was dodging a bludger.

"He's only a reserve," Daphne interjected. "The regular keeper caught a particularly nasty curse from an ex-girlfriend and is still at St. Mungo's." Too late she realized her slip, when Astoria's violet eyes clouded over. Ever since her breakup with Draco, she'd been moody and morose, and this new bit about Malfoy being wanted for murder—well, it didn't set well, to put it politely.

The announcer calling the plays whooped in delight. "Did you see that, folks? If that quaffle had come any closer, I'd be laid out cold!"

A green-robed female with a gold talon emblazoned on her chest swooped past the announcer's box on her broom, pursued by two men from the opposing team. All at once she tossed up a bludger she'd been concealing in her robes and whacked it with the bat; it sailed directly at one of the wizards and thumped him in the head, and he toppled from his broom to the pitch below, with the spectators screaming and cheering.

"Morgan does it again! Will Puddlemere never learn?" A crew of wizards raced onto the field toward the fallen player. "Looks like the captain has called a time out while they determine how bad off Richardson is."

"Hey, I've an idea," Sirius proposed. "The announcer said earlier that Viktor Krum is here with his fiancée, whom I happened to be acquainted with—"

"The mudblood Granger," Daphne said to her sister, rolling her eyes.

"_Don't_ call her that!" In one of the rare instances he put his foot down with Daphne, Sirius glared at her, frowning. "Being pureblood doesn't make us better, it just makes us from magical families."

"Whatever," Daphne shot back, sulking. Was she expected to censor her speech around Sirius or risk being lectured like a child?

"Anyway," he continued, tossing his dark hair out of his face, only to have the wind blow it right back, "This would be a great time to meet Viktor Krum. What do you say?"

"Are you going to shout at me again?" asked Daphne icily, her body angled away from him.

"No," he said, feeling guilty without knowing why. He put his arms round her and kissed her cheek, then her neck. "I'm sorry, but I don't like to hear my friends insulted. Hermione helped to save my life twice. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"You know it does," she said grudgingly, though she turned in to him to accept his embrace and reciprocate. At last she pulled away, stood up, and tugged at her sister's sleeve. "Come on, Tori, let's go get your mind off Draco."

By the time they'd climbed to the top box where the prime seats were located, all three were out of breath. Several fans crowded around Krum, waiting their turns for his autograph, which he graciously provided on scraps of parchment, and even on their garments. The three paused to catch their wind and allow the people to disperse, while noting the cozy way Hermione and Viktor had snuggled up against one another, his arm slung about her waist, her head on his shoulder. Although the closeness could be chalked up to the chilly weather, none of them believed that for a second.

"Oi, Hermione!" Sirius yelled, raising a hand and waving enthusiastically.

"Sirius!" Hermione jumped up and waved back. "Come on over. No one's sitting here except us." She gestured to the seats beside them and directly in front. When he got near enough, she squeezed him in a hard hug. "It's good to see you again. Have you met Viktor?"

"No, I can't say that I have," smiled Black, extending a hand. "I'm Sirius Black. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Viktor pumped his hand and smiled. "I haf heard much about you from Hermione and Harry."

"Harry knows you?" exclaimed Sirius, immediately before recalling his godson had gone to school with Krum for the better part of a year during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. "Well, he might have introduced us."

"I do not see him often," said Viktor. He glanced at the young ladies and smiled. "Vill you introduce your friends?" With his head turned from Hermione, he failed to see the look of antipathy crossing her face. Years of being looked down upon and insulted were hard to forget in an instant.

"This is Daphne, my girlfriend, and her sister Astoria."

"Astoria was dating Draco Malfoy," Hermione reminded Viktor, for he'd met Malfoy at Snape's wedding. Double glares like daggers pierced her from the pair of sisters, which she attributed to her blood status—until she remembered with a start that Draco was missing and accused of murder, and surely Astoria felt badly about it even if they were no longer together. Knowing them, they'd assume she'd brought it up on purpose. "I—I don't believe he's guilty of what they claim." Draco may be a blood-racist little ferret, but he didn't have the guts to murder someone.

"Of course he's not," Astoria huffed. "They're using him as a scapegoat because of his father, because Mr. Malfoy was a Death Eater."

_Draco was a Death Eater, too_. No point in arguing that, as it was a losing battle, and she'd come here to have a good time. And she really did believe in Draco's innocence…this time. "You're probably right. You know what? Viktor and I saw you in concert in Sofia. You're very good on the violin."

Astoria seemed at a loss for what to say. It wasn't every day a mortal enemy complimented her. "Thank you."

"Tori, come sit here," said Sirius. He moved to the seat in front of Viktor, with Daphne on his other side. "Looks like the game is starting up again. I hope we can talk a bit later."

Viktor nodded, his face impassive, and Hermione smiled. "I'd like that, Sirius."

Now that the new guests were absorbed in the game, Viktor said to Hermione, "Kato se varnem v Balgaria, shte otida da govorya s Borimechkata, da vidim dali znae neshto za izchezvaneto na Drako." (_When we get back to Bulgaria, I'll go talk to Borimetchka, see if he knows anything about Draco's disappearance.)_ His boot knocked against his Wind Cleaver broomstick at his feet, the one he would use to fly Hermione away after the match to preclude being mobbed by fans.

"Koi e Borimechkata?" _(Who is Borimetchka?)_ asked Hermione.

"Chovekat koito upravlyava stanciyata za drakoni nedaletch ot Durmstrang. Kato student postoyanno letyah nad tyah i ponyakoga slizah za po edno 'zdrasti'." _(The man who runs the dragon camp near Durmstrang. I used to fly over it all the time when I was a student, and sometimes drop in to say 'hello'.)_

Hermione offered a dubious look. "Prosto otivashe da si poprikazvash s niakogo dazhe ne poznavash?" _(So you just dropped in to talk to a man you didn't even know?)_

"Poznavam go ot predi da osnove stanciyata, toi beshe sedma godina az kato byah vtora." _(I knew him a little before he started the camp because he was a seventh year when I was a second year) _said Viktor, winking at her.

She snuggled even closer and shivered a tad, making him embrace her with both arms. "Oh. Dobre de, toi kakvo bi mogal da znae za izchezvaneto na Drako, koeto veche da ne go e kazal na avrorite i reporterite?" _(Oh. Well still, what would he know about Draco's disappearance that he hasn't already told the aurors and reporters?)_

"Shte vidim. Toi obiknoveno znae poveche za neshtata otkolkoto pokazva." _(We'll see. He usually knows more than he lets on.)_

Sirius spun around with a look of mock annoyance on his face. "Alright, enough of that love-babble. Speak English so we can eavesdrop more efficiently." A handsome smile broke and he laughed in spite of himself.

Meanwhile, Daphne nudged her sister and mouthed the word, 'Rude', as her eyes flickered to Hermione and back. Astoria nodded, then turned back to the game.

"You're barmy, Sirius," Hermione answered, smiling with him. In the back of her mind, she wondered what this Borimetchka character might have to say about Malfoy, and why she should even care.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Theo waited until closing time at the joke shop so as to avoid unnecessary onlookers when he spoke to George. He'd resolved to be polite about the whole affair—egad, bad choice of words. To be polite about the way Weasley insisted on flirting with Jacinta, despite the fact that she was taken—no, not _taken with Weasley_…taken, as in belonging to another, unavailable, and obviously not interested. Well, perhaps not obviously, since Theo was here to set things straight. Whatever! She was his, and that lame-brained, blood traitor redhead had better watch his step!

Now he'd worked himself up again. As much as he'd like to get it over with in an old fashioned fistfight, brute force would not be the method of choice since (1) he had the muscular build of a Gumby doll, and hence was quite possibly incapable of overpowering Weasley, and (2) Jacinta wouldn't appreciate the grand gesture of getting his arse kicked for her, nor would she respect Theo for what he did well—dueling, and with any luck hexing the weasel into oblivion. That left only words.

He watched Regulus leave, and ducked into the shadows to elude detection. Another few minutes and no one came out, so he strode up to the door and tried the latch; no surprise, it was locked. He knocked and waited. George opened the door wearing his scarlet work robe and a smirk that made Theo irrationally want to slap it right off his face.

"The shop's closed, mate," said George. The smirk deepened, like a private joke.

_Temper_, Theo reminded himself. "Weas—George, can we talk in private? Man to man."

"Sure." George's brow furrowed, but he held the door open for the other wizard, who entered and stood barely inside. The portrait of Fred hung on the wall right there in the alcove, presumably so he could observe the comings and goings.

"Hello," said Fred, giving a swipe of the arm in a wave.

"Hello," Theo responded, thoroughly creeped out. It was bad enough to be here facing ONE George without an image of him in back, side by side. He forced himself to look at the live twin. "George, we aren't friends, so certainly you understand this isn't a social call. I've noticed you…how can I put this delicately? You've been keeping company with my girlfriend, and while she has a right to her friends, I get the distinct impression you'd like to be more than that."

"You trifling with the boy's chit?" asked Fred, putting on a surprised, admonishing expression.

"No," said George to the portrait. "All we've done is talk, but if she's inclined in my direction, I won't stop her."

"Sounds like a contest," grinned Fred. "Is she that blond who comes in fawning on you?"

George laughed. "No. She's the one who painted you!"

"Oh, right!" Fred rejoined, bobbing his head. "Snape's daughter. Still can't come to terms with that. I mean, he wasn't exactly the most solicitous teacher—"

"Excuse me!" Theo interrupted, scowling. "I came here to see George. You two can talk later. I'm asking you cordially to back off like a gentleman. It's not my business if you're friends, but it is my business if you're trying to steal her away."

"He is being gracious," Fred acknowledged, glancing at his twin. "And he did have her first."

"Look, Theo," said George, ignoring Fred for once. "Jacinta is pretty and funny and clever and talented—but you already know all that, which is why you're here. If she's slipping away, that's her choice. Let me pose you a question: if you don't have what she's looking for, don't you think maybe _you_ ought to step aside?"

Theo barely resisted pulling out his wand and cursing the redhead so badly he'd be in the hospital for weeks…and he knew plenty of spells that would do it. He shoved down his ire, forcing himself to remain calm. Dad was right, reasoning with another man in this situation was a waste of time, but he'd foolishly thought he ought to try it anyway. Well, he'd tried to be chivalrous; now it was time for Plan B, the one his father had advised him to use. George may have charm, but Theo was resourceful and cunning; he had generations of Slytherin attributes to call upon.

"Weasley, I'll be ice skating in hell before I step aside, or before Jacinta decides she wants you over me." He cast a cold smile. "Good evening." He threw open the door and walked out, wondering if his cousin Blaise Zabini was at home….they needed to talk.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

In a tiny wooden cabin hidden in one of the many valleys in the area, Oleksandr sat hunkered together with Oksana in front of a roaring fire. It felt good to ward off the October chill. Heck, just being here with Oksana warmed him through and through.

"Here, love. Have another bite." He lifted a piece of chocolate and nut candy to her lips, and she obligingly nibbled off a bit. "Isn't it so nice to be back together?"

She nodded haltingly. "Of course, Sashko. I should never have left you."

"I forgive you." His face nuzzled into her neck, planting delicate kisses. "Let's make love again."

"I'm tired," she protested softly. "Let's go to sleep."

"I'll do most of the work. You can sleep after." Sashko pressed her down onto the couch, all the while smothering her with more kisses. "I love you."

Oksana pushed feebly on his chest with both hands; he simply lifted them over her head and out of his way, seemingly oblivious to the magical cord binding her wrists together.


	35. The Truth Will Out

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 35 (The Truth Will Out)

**October 6, 2000**

"Bayly, I thought I'd find you here." Aline let the door to the Potions lab swing shut behind her, while glancing about as if she'd been gone for ages. Amazing how much she missed it, and hadn't appreciated the extent of it until now.

Bayly raised his head from the essay he was grading, his quill perched in the air over the parchment already liberally marked in red. "Aline, hi. What are you doing here?" As he rose to his feet, concern rose in his face.

Smiling to put him at ease, she walked up the center aisle, one hand gliding casually over the edge of each table. "Don't worry, I don't come bearing bad tidings. Gloria's watching the babies, who are doing just fine. Do I need a reason to drop in on my snakes?"

"No, of course not. They miss you, too," he said, settling back into his chair. "So what's up?"

"Nothing much." She paused to peer into a cauldron on the front table set over a low flame. Gently wafting the fumes toward her face with one hand, she gave a delicate sniff. "Veritaserum? I didn't realize there was much call for it at Hogwarts."

"There's not, but your husband likes to have some on hand," Bayly replied, grinning. "That's his work. He warned me under pain of…well, he wasn't specific, but some kind of dreadful consequences not to touch it."

Aline shook her head and sighed. "He is anal about his potions."

_And you're not?_ Bayly refrained from saying. He ducked his head to hide a chuckle. If the precise organization in this desk were any indication, Aline was every bit as anal as Severus, and then some.

Oblivious to his ruminations, Aline went on, "When I return to teach in January, it will free up some time for you—time you'll be spending studying to be a Potions master. Oh, we're not going to let you forget about that, young man. Severus will begin testing you, and believe me when I say he won't go easy on you."

"Didn't you meet Professor Snape when he interviewed you for this job, and made you brew potions?"

"Yes. Hence my statement that he can be a royal bastard when testing people on potions." She laughed at the comically apprehensive expression on the youth's face. "But he hated me on sight, and he loves you, so I don't anticipate anything of that caliber."

"He really did loathe you," Bayly agreed.

"You don't have to look so happy about it," she snipped.

"I'm not, it's just—well, it was interesting to watch from my perspective," he explained. "Over time, I saw his demeanor change toward you, and you two finally started to be civil. The next thing I knew, you were in love. It was…I don't know…romantic and sweet."

Aline laughed softly, laying a hand on his arm. "Don't let Severus hear you say that. He prides himself on being…the opposite of that."

_Knock, knock._ The door opened again and the diminutive Charms instructor entered. "Bayly, I need to—Aline, you're here!"

"Why does everybody seem so surprised?" she queried, raising an eyebrow, or attempting to do so, like her husband.

Flitwick toddled up the aisle. "At any rate, it's for the best. You probably should know as well, since you're both Heads of Slytherin House. One of your Slytherins hasn't been attending my class all week, yet he hasn't visited the infirmary. I thought you might look into it."

Bayly set his quill in the holder on the desk and stood up again. "Who is it?"

"Jonathan Avery, a firstie," said Filius. He stopped to gawk into the lone cauldron, though he had little idea what the concoction might be. It hadn't been one of his strongest subjects in school.

Pulling a bemused face, Bayly turned to Aline. "You haven't met the first years yet. Jonathan is a very quiet boy, withdrawn even, not the type to cut classes. I saw him yesterday at lunch."

"I guess there's no time like the present to meet the firsties and have a little talk with Jonathan," said Aline. Not a good idea to let misbehaviour get out of hand when nipping it in the bud invariably fared better than letting a problem fester. She glanced at the clock on the far wall. Morning classes had ended, and lunch would begin soon. "If you don't mind, will you assemble the children for me in the common room? I'll be in straightaway."

Bayly left to do as asked, and Aline addressed the other teacher. "Have my students been giving you any trouble?"

"Oh, no," Filius said quickly, shaking his head. "Since you became Head of House, I've only noticed Slytherins being respectful and less…bigoted, I suppose. These past two years have seen an increase in their socialisation with the other Houses."

"That's good to hear. With any luck, the prejudice against Slytherins will diminish over time," said Aline, lifting her chin at his stricken countenance. It was true. Even she, an outsider to the school, saw it plainly; she wasn't going to pretend her students and their predecessors hadn't been unfairly treated for generations—centuries, even. "Thank you for telling us, Filius. We'll talk to him and get to the bottom of it."

When Aline reached the common room, all of Slytherin House were waiting. To her amusement, Bayly had even sorted them into levels arranged from lowest to highest as they went around the room. "Nice touch," she said, smiling as she entered the room to exclamations of joyous greetings.

"I thought you'd appreciate it," he said, grinning back. He motioned to the pupils, and they silenced immediately, which Aline thought impressive. Severus would be proud. "Mistress Snape has come for a short visit. I think you all know better than to get on her bad side." A ripple of snickers ran across the room. They knew. "First years, Mistress Snape wants to meet you, so be on your best behaviour." He drifted over to the fireplace, where he leaned to listen to what Aline had to say.

"First of all, welcome to Hogwarts," Aline murmured. She slowly made her way round the room, starting the with oldest group, embracing her snakes and exchanging small talk primarily consisting of the babies and her absence. When she got to the first years, she solemnly shook their hands, rather than risk making them uncomfortable with a hug from a stranger. "As you know, Severus and I welcomed twin boys into our family, so I won't be returning right away, not until January. Thank you for your kind words and well wishes, I've missed you very much. Secondly, I commend you on your continued good comportment, even in my absence. Professor Young and Professor Flitwick have both informed me that you continue to strive for excellence, and our House is in top position so far for the House Cup. I'm proud of you all. I don't want to keep you from lunch, so you may go—except for the first years."

"Will you come to visit again?" asked a seventh year girl wistfully.

"I will, I promise. And next time we'll have the opportunity to sit down and chat." Her gaze bounced to Bayly and then to the youngest children. "Today I have to take care of some business."

They waited until the majority of students cleared out, leaving only a scant dozen small faces looking up curiously at her. "Hello again. I'm sure Professor Young gave you the lecture on being family for one another while here at Hogwarts." Their heads bobbed in unison. "Good. I'd like to add that Professor Young and I, and the Headmaster, are also part of this family. If you have a problem or need help, you come to one of us and we'll do everything we can. I'd like to stay and get to know you, but you're hungry and would like to go to lunch, so I'll meet with you next time I visit."

A pudgy boy raised his hand and waited to be recognized. "How come you talk funny?"

"Arnold, that's not best behaviour," Bayly warned.

Aline gave a barely noticeable shake of the head. She was used to such comments from the first two years of teaching here. "It's alright. I'm from Salem, in America. Over there they don't think I talk funny." She winked and two little girls giggled. "I look forward to seeing you all again. Jonathan Avery, where are you?"

A slight boy, shorter than the rest, hesitantly raised his hand. His wide blue eyes held a haunted look.

"I'd like to speak to you," said Aline. "The rest of you, shoo."

Laughing and elbowing each other, casting furtive glances back at the witch, the children exited. Now only Aline, Bayly, and Jonathan remained, and the latter looked ready to burst into tears. Bayly led the boy to a sofa, where he sat down beside him with Aline in a chair facing them.

"Am I in trouble?" the child asked anxiously.

"Jonathan, Professor Flitwick said you've been skipping his class," Aline began, trying to keep the admonishing tone out of her voice. "We'd like to know why."  
The lad's head hung down so his chin touched his chest, and he shrugged. "I just don't wanna go," he mumbled.

"That's not an acceptable reason," Bayly said. "Don't you trust me?"

"Yes," Jonathan answered faintly. His eyes flicked to the witch then back to the floor, an action noticed by both adults.

Leaning forward and taking his hand in hers, Aline said just as softly, "You can trust me, too, Jonathan. I don't want to punish you, I only want to know what's wrong so we can try to fix it."

For a long moment there was no response, then the lad said, "Professor Snape was a Death Eater."

Taken aback, Aline regained her composure before replying, "He was, in a way, but he was fighting to overthrow Voldemort. Why do you bring that up?"

Jonathan swallowed a lump rising in his throat. "My dad and grandpa were Death Eaters. They're in Azkaban, been there for two years."

Aline squeezed gently on his hand, and suddenly a wave hit her, leaving her dazed. Since having the babies, she'd noticed her episodes of clairvoyance had become more frequent and—dare she think it?—more under her control. Two distinct visions swirled in her head now: the first revolved around two men resembling Jonathan (evidently his father and grandfather), interacting with the boy in a pleasant manner; the second vision was ugly, the cruel taunting of children. The poor boy had lost his loved ones to prison when he was only nine years old, and now students were tormenting him over it!

"You love your dad and grandpa a lot, don't you? Is someone harassing you about them?" she asked, knowing full well the answer.

The boy nodded, his fists clenched in his lap. "Some Gryffindorks. They say Draco Malfoy is a murderer, and all kids of Death Eaters turn out to be scum." Angrily he brushed away a tear coursing down his cheek.

Bayly put his arm around the child's shoulders. "You know that isn't true, right? I'm the son of one of the worst Death Eaters, and I'm not like him. You're not, either. It's alright to love your dad; it doesn't mean you'll do bad things."

"Why can't they just leave us alone?" the boy pleaded, looking up at him.

"They will, Jonathan, I guarantee you that," said Aline. Her mouth set in a tight line, her nostrils pinched. In a tone that brooked no defiance, she said, "Tell me their names. Neither I nor my husband will tolerate bullying."

Inwardly she fumed. Despite the fact that most Slytherins were NOT Death Eaters, rampant prejudice existed at this school. Evidently the accusation against Draco—false as it was—has sparked the 'I told you so' factor, exacerbating the anti-Slytherin sentiments and emboldening them to pick on this little boy, and possibly others. To her knowledge, only three other children of Death Eaters currently attended: Silas and Rosetta Jugson, and Libby Gibbon, all fourth year or higher. She'd have to check with them to see if they'd been targeted as well. Right now, she needed to speak to Severus.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 9, 1978**

When the dark lord made his appearance, walking regally out into the meadow with Bellatrix sashaying behind him, as one the crowd of Death Eaters fell utterly silent and dropped to their knees. Leaving Bella in the open spot, Voldemort came to the middle of the circle, facilitating the grovel routine, as they were able to approach him from all sides. When they'd all returned to their places, he spoke in a high, hissing voice.

"I realize this is an unusual, perhaps even inconvenient time of day to call you here, what with leaving jobs and such. However, this is an extraordinary occasion. Snape, in his role of spy at Hogwarts, has discovered that the Ministry plans an all-out assault on Death Eaters, with _this_ as their weapon." He held up one of the vials of potion. "Veritaserum, which is being supplied in unprecedented quantities by Potions masters across Britain."

A general stir and rumbling among the Death Eaters followed, one of whom piped up, "My lord, Snape is just a boy. How would he know Ministry business?"

"Funny you should ask, Yaxley," Voldemort crooned. "I'd have thought you or Rookwood or Malfoy would know what goes on at the Ministry." His wand aimed at Yaxley and delivered a jolt that knocked him off his feet. "Be grateful I'm merciful or you'd be squirming under the Cruciatus."

"Yes, my lord, thank you," croaked Yaxley, sitting up with difficulty. He crawled back to his spot, where the man beside him helped him to his feet.

"Your chore, my friends, is to learn how to override the influence of their drug so that if you're taken into custody, you don't reveal information damaging to our cause or to your fellow Death Eaters."

The general consensus being they had no idea how to accomplish this feat, no one spoke or moved. At last a brave voice ventured, "Master, I've read there exists an antidote to Veritaserum."

"And so there does," concurred the dark lord. "How many of you carry along a vial of it? No one? And in the event you were captured, do you think the aurors wouldn't search you and take it from you? Or, if you were quick enough to swallow it, would they not simply wait for its effects to wear off before dosing you?"

Again an uncomfortable silence settled over the group.

Voldemort strutted around the inner circumference of the circle, staring at each masked face, enjoying the smell of fear emanating from them, though his pleasure was tainted by wondering how much of this fear was for him and how much for the news of the Veritaserum. He also sensed apprehension, confusion swirling around, which he found distasteful; they felt helpless, hopeless, as if their master was unable to aid them!

"Some wizards can innately prevent the effects of this heinous drug," Voldemort intoned. "The vulnerable, the unsuspecting, the unskilled—these are the ones who need to worry. There are various methods to resist, the easiest being Occlumency."

Voldemort continued his prowling about as he spoke. "For those skilled in wandless magic, transforming the serum into mere water before it touches the lips is an extremely effective measure. Since the serum already looks like water, the aurors would have no way to know that you were not telling them the truth. The third, and probably least valuable method, is to seal the throat to prevent swallowing. This, unfortunately, can be overcome fairly easily by massaging the throat or inducing swallowing by other methods."

He indicated the circle as he went on. "Pair up. You'll practice on each other under my supervision."

"I'll take blondie!" Bellatrix shrilled, her eyes lighting up. Oh, the secrets she could pry from him!

"No!" Lucius balked. "I already called Snape."

"You did not!"

"Did, too! In my head," he insisted.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Master…"

Voldemort held up a hand, feeling rather like a disgruntled father to a sizeable clan of unruly children. "Remove your masks and hoods. Pair up with the person _next_ to you," he amended his former command.

Bella smirked at Lucius, whose hood and mask shielded her from the evil glower shooting her way. She leaned in close and whispered, "The master said take those off. And your mind is sooo open to me."

"You wish," he hissed back, yanking them off. "The master taught me Occlumency, too."

Yet again the dark lord raised his voice. "I will administer the potion myself. Whoever receives the drug must lie convincingly to his partner, who will play the role of auror. The rest of you pay attention and learn."

He moved on to the first pair. The drugged man immediately caved, confessing everything the auror asked of him, making the dark lord's eyes narrow in fury. He pointed his wand and the man fell screaming to the ground under the Cruciatus. One by one he made his way around the large circle, either praising the success or—more often—punishing the deficiency, until it was Bella and Lucius' turn.

"Drug him, my lord," Bella pleaded impishly. Voldemort complied, and Bella took her place in front of Lucius. "What is your name, scum!"

"Lucius Malfoy," he replied without hesitation. "And I believe you have my nickname confused with your own." This elicited a laugh from the crowd, a hateful frown from the woman.

Expecting the same type of questions he'd heard repeatedly as each pair took a turn, he was thrown when Bella asked, "Do you love Cissy?"

"Yes." If he lied and said no, Bella would tell Narcissa, of that he had no doubt.

"Did you ever lust after me?"

"No!"

She gave a put-out look. "When's the last time you had sex?"

"That's none of your business." Despite the empty oddness in his skull, Lucius felt the distinct urge to wrap his hands around her throat. This wasn't what she was supposed to be asking!

"How many galleons did your robes cost?" she sneered.

"More than you could afford," he said snidely.

Bellatrix turned to Voldemort who, while enjoying Lucius' discomfort, found the session worthless. "My lord, I believe he's telling the truth on all these questions," she said in a hushed tone as if fearing Malfoy might hear her. "His instructions were to lie convincingly, which he hasn't done. He must not be able to obstruct the potion's influence."

"You bitch!" Lucius barked, something he'd not ordinarily dare, as he'd likely have to face her in a duel over it. "You're trying to get me punished because I won't say what you want to hear! Ask me something normal—master, please, _you_ ask me."

Voldemort raised his thin eyebrows a touch. It was entirely possible Malfoy told the truth to spite Bellatrix; the two acted like brats in need of spankings. "Alright, Lucius. Are you a Death Eater?"

"No, my lord." Oops. The 'my lord' part shouldn't have slipped out.

"I'm an auror now, Lucius. What are the names of other Death Eaters?"

"I don't know any Death Eaters! I don't know why I'm being detained and harassed, but I assure you, you'll pay for it." The venomous ease with which he spewed the words out made plain that he was not buckling to the Veritaserum's effect.

"My lord," Bellatrix interrupted. "It probably wore off. Maybe he needs more."

Just to shut her up, and also to make sure she wasn't right, he dropped more liquid into Lucius' mouth. "Now, Malfoy, who am I?"

_Must lie_, he reminded himself. Coldly he replied, "I've never seen you before today. How would I know?"

Voldemort glanced over at Bellatrix with a look that said, 'You were wrong. Any other bright ideas?' She ducked her head, pouting. She'd really wanted to see Lucius _crucio_'d, or better yet be permitted to do it herself. It wasn't that she _hated_ him, per se, he simply got on her nerves. After making the rounds in the circle to dope the second member of each pair, and dishing out more punishments, Voldemort administered the drug to Bella, and waved an imperious hand at Lucius to question the woman.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, you are charged with torturing and murdering muggles," Lucius grinned, getting up close to her face. "Are you guilty?"

"Of course not."

"So, you don't hate muggles? You don't wish they were all dead?"

A grim look of determination crossed her features. "No."

Lucius' grin became a cruel smile. "Tell me you like muggles, that you think they're every bit as good as you are."

"I-I li-li—master, I can't, this is inhuman!" she screeched, shoving Lucius away. "That's not fair!"

"And aurors are so fair!" Lucius shot back. "At least I'm not asking you when you do it with Rodolphus or if he likes it or—"

"Shut up!" thundered Voldemort. "I should crush you both on general principles!" When his wand came up, they both ducked at the same instant. "Those of you who passed the test may go. Those who failed may go, but return tomorrow night at nine o'clock for practice in Occlumency before another test." He wheeled and stalked into the castle.

(Author's note: Information regarding Veritaserum was taken from the official JKRowling site, FAQ section.)

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 6, 2000**

_March 9, 1978_

_ Severus delivered the Veritaserum as promised, and today we had our first trial, which I confess was an abysmal failure. Less than half of my Death Eaters were able to counter the effects of the drug, meaning all the rest are vulnerable—and because of that, every one of them is at risk. And, as a natural consequence, I am at risk of discovery, though it would take more than pitiful aurors to capture me. I found the whole episode infuriating._

_ And Bellatrix. I don't know what it is between her and Lucius, but the two cannot be within half a mile of one another without acting like spoiled brats. I was tempted to turn her over my knee, only I dare say she'd bask in it, and certainly Lucius wouldn't cry over watching her castigated. He's every bit as bad where she is concerned. Astoundingly, the two have proven more than once that they are capable of working together when I send them on a mission, or I'd have to chastise them severely._

A smirk twitched at the corners of Severus' mouth. He used to enjoy watching Lucius and Bella bicker; it was often the high point of Death Eater meetings when they were young. So young, so long ago… He remembered that event well, how he'd worked as a student alongside Slughorn preparing the Veritaserum, how he'd offered to bottle it and had subsequently nicked a few vials in the process to give to Voldemort…back when he'd believed he was hurrying along the end to the war.

Severus' smirk faded. He'd passed his trial easily using Occlumency, though poor Regulus had not fared so well. He'd failed miserably, been penalized, and then forced to endure the trial again and again, day after day, suffering the punishments each time he fell short. Had it not been for Lucius teaching him to channel his innate wandless magic, he might have ended up dead at Voldemort's hand a full year earlier.

Snape was prepared to berate whoever dared open his office door without permission when Aline poked her head inside. "Severus, we have a problem. You boys wait out here," she said to someone Snape couldn't see.

A few minutes and a quick session of Legilimency brought Severus up to speed on the situation with Jonathan Avery. He placed a warm kiss on Aline's lips and hugged her tight. "I'll take care of it, honey. I'll see you at home."

Five boys between the ages of twelve and fourteen—all Gryffindors, Severus noted with an eye roll at the futility of hoping for substantial change in their ranks—filed in as Aline left. They lined up facing Severus; not surprisingly, none of them appeared abashed at their conduct, though he did detect fear. It was a start.

He meandered along the row, arms crossed, staring down at each boy in turn, waiting for the inevitable breach of solidarity that occurred when one child didn't care to 'take one for the team', as muggles said. Minutes ticked by; the boys had begun to fidget and sweat. Severus paced back and forth, unspeaking, letting his death glower rest upon the brats.

"It wasn't me!" the youngest burst out, gesticulating wildly at the others. "I only said his dad is a criminal, and he is! They're the ones—"

"Shut up!" howled the other four. Though they dared not physically make him, they looked like they wanted to.

Snape gave a low hiss and the room became quiet as a tomb. "At the beginning of term, Professor McGonagall went over the rules, did she not?" The lads gave grudging nods. Severus scarcely resisted a glance at Dumbledore's portrait. If the old coot gainsaid him now, he'd rip that thing off the wall and relegate it to the hallway. "When I was in school, bullying was not a punishable offense, obviously. Now it is; we practice a zero tolerance policy. Mr. Bernstein, what is the stipulated punishment for bullying?"

"A switching," the eldest responded glumly. "Expulsion in severe cases."

"But we only teased him a couple of times," whined another.

At a very slow pace, enunciating carefully, Severus responded, "What part of _zero_ do you not understand?" As anticipated, no one answered, though one boy whispered an apology, and the rest mumbled their regret immediately afterward. "It does no good to tell _me_ you're sorry, does it? By way of warning, you will all do detention with me tonight. Tomorrow, in front of the entire student body, you will apologize to Mr. Avery. If I hear of even one more incident involving any of you, I will blister your arses until you have to stand so long you'll forget how to sit! Now get out."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Viktor had never seen Borimetchka upset. He'd seen him happy, angry, and drunk at various times, but never upset. The gigantic man looked severely depressed sitting slumped on his porch, feet on one step, disconcertingly quiet as he stared into space. The only sign of life was the heaving of his chest as he breathed. It all seemed so strange, so out of character.

Though Bori had no need to say the words, it was clear to Viktor that he feared for Oksana; it didn't take much to realize the big wizard had feelings for her that went beyond those of an employer. Bori had gone to Sashko's old camp, only to be told Sashko had deserted his job days earlier, telling no one where he was going. Aurors searching the area, including his family home, had come up empty as well. The man had virtually disappeared, most likely with Oksana. On top of that, Bori's little dragon had wandered off again; last time it had taken him hours to find the creature, whose wings grew stronger all the time, allowing him to traverse greater distances.

"I wish I could help," Viktor said as he half-sat, half-leaned on the porch rail. "If you like, I'll fly over the area and see if I can spot Dragomir." Finding Oksana would be far more difficult, he was sure.

Bori gave a heavy shrug. "If you don't mind. Otherwise, I'm sure he'll find his way home eventually."

"Borimetchka, the aurors are gone, you can speak freely," said Viktor, nonetheless giving the area a quick once-over glance. "What do you think happened with Draco Malfoy? Hermione says he wouldn't kill Artem."

"He didn't," Bori answered in a low tone. "Swear to me you won't reveal anything I say to aurors or anyone who could do harm."

Viktor lifted his Wind Cleaver broomstick in front of him. "I swear on my broom that I won't reveal anything you say to aurors or anyone who can do harm, or may I never play Quidditch again."

Bori nodded, satisfied with the vow. "Draco was carried off by Omen, and badly injured. Tanassov is tending to him…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Luna was weird; Draco hadn't changed his opinion of that. The fact that she'd charmed her half of the wizard chess pieces proved it: the pawns were now garden gnomes, the knights became unicorns, the rooks were stately willow trees, and the bishops had transfigured to centaurs. As if all of this wasn't bizarre enough, the king bore a remarkable likeness to Dimitar Tanassov, with his Queen Luna in a long, white flowing dress and a wreath of flowers in her hair.

Chess peculiarity notwithstanding, over the past few days he'd spent more time with Luna than he'd ever in his wildest nightmares believed he would, and he'd come to…_like_ was a strong word…he tolerated her. No, that sounded too crass, considering she'd kept him company, helped in his recuperation, and had gone all the way to Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor on his behalf. What did he feel? He…he respected her.

"My unicorn has conquered your bishop," said Luna. She pointed at where the unicorn had gored the bishop in the gut, and was busily prancing and stomping him to pieces.

Draco moved his rook three spaces to the right. "Check."

The Tanassov king grimaced and brandished a fist. Was he making an obscene gesture? "Isn't he cute?" Luna sighed.

"Yeah. _Cute_ is the word that springs to mind," Draco said dryly.

"Some people think you killed Artem for being muggleborn," Luna announced, right before sliding Queen Luna in front of the king.

"W-what?" Draco choked out, thrown for a loop. He thought they believed him! "I didn't kill anyone! And I liked Artem, I don't care if he was wizard, muggle, or somewhere in between. Granger helped save my mother's life; do you honestly think I'd repay that debt by murdering muggleborns?"

"Of course not. I said _some people_ think. I'm just making conversation."

Draco bit his tongue to keep a sharp retort from escaping. This was Luna Lovegood, he reminded himself. All things considered, the topic of conversation could have been much worse. "Aren't you friends with Granger?"

"Yes, Hermione and I visit regularly now that I live in Bulgaria and she spends half her time here," Luna said. One of her garden gnomes hopped forward two spots. Draco's knight reared ahead two, sideways one, pulled out a sword, and lopped off the poor creature's head.

He didn't bother to gloat, he barely even took notice. Granger worked as a liaison between the British and Bulgarian Ministries of Magic. If he hadn't been such a shithead to her all those years, he could have asked her to talk to Minister Yablanski for him, convince him of Draco's innocence, and have the arrest warrant revoked. Instead, he had to pray Luna had the sense not to mention him to Granger. It seemed eerily similar to the sensation of skating on a barely frozen lake, waiting for the moment the ice crumbled beneath him. Not a pleasant feeling.

"Luna, do you mind if I forfeit the game? I'm feeling very tired all of a sudden." He laid back on his bed, his brow creased with anxiety. Where was Father—or Uncle Severus? What were they doing to make sure he'd be alright? Would he be alright?

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Draco Malfoy has been at Durmstrang the whole time._ Viktor flew over the castle, high above, looking down as he'd done hundreds of times in the past. Tanassov would not under any circumstances harbour a man he believed dangerous to his pupils or staff…and the fact of the matter was that Tanassov had a way of finding out the truth. Whether he was a Legilimens like Snape, Viktor didn't know, but he was well aware of the man's skill with herbs and potions. Secrets didn't stay buried long when he set his mind to finding out what was what.

He lazily circled round, peering through the trees with their multi-coloured leaves. This was a pretty season to fly, if rather chilly. Fortunately, he knew enough to wear his thick, cold-obstructing cloak. While tempted to drop in and see Malfoy for himself, he rejected the notion. He had a job to do, he was supposed to be searching for Bori's dragon. With that in mind, he leaned forward and sped away.

Ten minutes and several miles later, he caught sight of an unusual green lump perched near the top of a tall tree whose leaves had been shaken off by a violent impact. He dove down, a smile forming on his lips, and pulled up to hover beside Dragomir, crouched on a creaky branch and whining to get down.

"How did you manage to get up here?" Viktor chided good naturedly.

Dragomir growled something as his talons dug into the tree.

Viktor looked back the way he'd come, and the answer was obvious. The dragon, practicing his flying, had sailed off the hilltop and then, because he was too young yet for prolonged flight, had collided with the tree and was now afraid to jump down. "Are you a cat stuck in a tree? Show some backbone, Dragomir. Follow me." He angled his broom down and zoomed toward the ground. Funny—he smelled smoke, yet he'd seen no cabins anywhere in the vicinity, nor any indication of a fire in the forest.

The dragon snorted puffs of air at him, but didn't follow. Viktor took out his wand, aimed, and levitated the squirming, protesting animal to the ground. "You're heavy, you know that?"

In answer Dragomir headbutted him in the stomach; were Viktor not acquainted with the beast, he might have been offended. Instead he patted the dragon's head and scratched his floppy ears. "You're welcome. Come on, let's go home. Bori's worried about you, and he doesn't need more worries right now."


	36. Domination

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 36 (Domination)

**October 7, 2000**

The boy was right on time. Lucius liked that, the whole concept of punctuality; not enough people observed the protocols anymore. Sisidy bowed to her master and mistress, left Regulus standing in the doorway to the parlour, and trotted to the side table next to Lucius, where she poured him a goblet of thick red wine.

"Regulus, come in and sit down." Lucius waited for Reg to comply, as Sisidy dispensed a tall glass of apple juice for Narcissa.

"Don't I get any wine?" asked Reg, for the elf had ceased ministrations.

Lucius tilted his head slightly, gauging the youth through steel grey slits. "You're a lush, so—no."

"Lucius, he's our guest," Narcissa chided, patting Reg's arm and gesturing to the elf. "Try a little tact." Sisidy poured another glass of juice for Regulus.

"Dancing around the subject is what permitted him to become a sot in the first place, my darling," Lucius replied, unperturbed. He wasn't trying to be mean or snarky, he was merely stating a fact. Orion had virtually ignored his son's partying before Reg's death, and after his miraculous return to life it seemed no one had the fortitude to point out the kid's faults except himself, and then to be criticized for it.

"You are not seriously implying that _I_ am to blame for his problem!" Narcissa gasped, holding a hand to her chest, stricken.

"No, not only you—"

"I'm right here," Regulus reminded them, feeling like a forgotten stick of furniture. No, not forgotten—broken and maligned. "If this is an intervention, I'm not interested. I've not got pissed for ages!"

Narcissa patted him again. She did love this cousin of hers. "Reg, I'm not sure what you mean by 'intervention', but we asked you here to…um…do us a favour." Her nose wrinkled a bit and she glanced at Lucius. "Lucius has your best interests at heart, although he exhibits the diplomacy of a troll where family is concerned."

"I like to think of it as being forthright," Lucius said, looking wounded.

"And I like to think if my husband can use finesse and courtesy with strangers and acquaintances, he can do the same with loved ones," Narcissa shot back.

"Please don't fight," Regulus said, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, his glass of apple juice dangling from his fingers. "You've both got a point—I have made a habit of drinking too much in the past, and Lucius can be an insensitive lout. Why am I here?"

"A lout?" Lucius echoed, now more horrified than anything. "In what universe is a Malfoy a _lout_? Am I a clumsy, ill-mannered boor? Why don't you call me a churlish peasant while you're at it?"

"Because you'd kick my arse if I did," Reg responded, grinning. "From now on I'll try to make my insults more acceptable to your social standing."

"Children, do you need time in the corner to calm down?" asked Narcissa, scowling at them both. With a hard warning glare at Lucius, she turned to Reg. "You know your old friend Udo Nott is alive, although the wizarding world believes him dead; you're aware of Jorab and Wendolph Goodman's previous identities. You've proven you can keep a secret in important matters."

"I'm not sure where this is headed," said Regulus. It was true; he'd always been able to keep crucial information to himself. Perhaps the knowledge that those he loved could be harmed by his indiscretion fueled this ability. He only wished he had the same ability to control his mouth in less critical matters, which led right back to the drinking and loosening of his tongue.

"We're going to trust you with an enormous secret," said Lucius in a hushed tone. He paused to take a sip from his wine and to let the _trust_ part sink in. "We've discovered where Draco is, and we'd like you to go there and find out what's happening."

Regulus' dark eyes widened. "Is he alright? Why can't you go?"

"He's being cared for," said Narcissa evenly, controlling her emotions. How she wanted to run to her boy's side! "Neither Lucius nor I can go because we're under surveillance. Being his godfather, even Severus is suspect."

"But it's highly unlikely anyone is monitoring _you_," Lucius added. "If you apparate away from Spinner's End, no one will think anything of it, and they can't follow you regardless. Are you willing to do this?"

"Yeah, of course I am!" Regulus burst out, excited and curious and relieved—and proud to be chosen—all at once. "I won't let you down, Lucius. You either, Cissy."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Severus thumbed idly through the last in the series of diaries, not looking for anything in particular. Aline and Lucius had assured him that all he needed to do was keep reading the diaries; the content of the entries was irrelevant, and he could always go back and peruse them in order another time if he so chose. The desire—or rather the deep-seated need—had passed. However, until he felt no compulsion or drive to continue, he would not be fully healed, so he'd read them no matter how disturbing he found some of them to be. At least they were only recollections; Severus was no longer participating in the evil deeds.

His own name leapt out at him and he let the book drop open.

_In order to keep abreast of my Death Eaters' activities to which I am not made privy, I have decided to randomly single out one or two men every so often and sift their minds. I read Snape's memories today, and I came across something interesting. It never fails to astound me how history repeats itself in even the most mundane fashion, right down to individual choices. They're all so alike, these humans who go about their pitiful lives believing themselves to be unique. I refuse to be mastered by the chains binding them, forcing them into preconceived notions and repetition of events: __love__, a desire to impress others, fear. No, I am above them, and will remain so._

To Severus' absolute mortification, he was there at the lake, that day of the O.W.L.s…the day of his abject humiliation at the hands of James Potter and Sirius Black while a crowd of students looked on, laughing. To make matters worse, he was seeing the event from Voldemort's perspective, observing himself being tormented while feeling not only his own anger and humiliation, but the dark lord's perverse enjoyment of his torture. It was all Severus could do not to throw up as he relived the awful incident yet again, as Lily stormed off, as Potter viciously attacked the unarmed boy.

Abruptly the scene changed. He was still at the lake, but the students now paid him no attention, save the little gang surrounding him, looking to him with reverence. He was Tom—or seeing things as Tom Riddle did all those years ago, at any rate. Lewis Mulciber and another boy, a Gryffindor with close-cropped black hair, stood a short distance away, wands at ready for a duel, while the Slytherin group watched intently on one side, a second group of Gryffindors and assorted others on the opposite side.

The two young men, both of whom seemed about seventeen, bowed in the traditional way. Wearing a fiendish sneer, Mulciber shot his first hex before he'd straightened from his bow. It struck the Gryffindor on top of his head, propelling him backward, where he landed near the water's edge and threw a wild curse that missed Mulciber by a wide margin.

"Is that the best you've got, Potter?" Mulciber taunted.

His second jinx sent the black-haired youth tumbling into the water, and shoved him roughly out into the lake so far that his feet didn't reach the bottom. He immediately sank below the surface, to the consternation of the Gryffindor pack, who made to rush to his rescue en masse.

"Not so fast," drawled Lestrange, his voice carrying over their shrill cries. He cast a line of roaring fire along the bank, precluding entry without dousing the flames first, and his wand turned on them, halting them in their tracks. In a heartbeat all of Tom's gang—Tom himself excluded—were on their feet, wands drawn and aimed at the Gryffindor throng. "He's fighting with Mulciber, and _he_ started it. Mulciber will decide when to end it."

Potter's head popped above the surface, along with flailing arms splashing at the water as he choked and sputtered, "I—can't—swim!" With that, he promptly sank once more. Furious shouts rang out among his friends, who charged the bank and the Slytherins, to be met with a crescendo of _stupefies_ that leveled several of them. The rest stopped, but screamed at Mulciber to do something.

Heaving a martyr-like sigh that didn't suit him at all, Mulciber pointed his wand, and the sodden figure rose to hover over the water, dripping and coughing and panting. His wand was no longer in his hand, presumably submerged in the lake. Mulciber steered the Gryffindor to the shore, though a glint in his eye signified he wasn't through yet. He released Potter, who dropped like a rock to land on his back in the grass.

"Shivering, huh? Guess it's cold in there," Mulciber said, smiling wickedly. "Best get those wet clothes off." A flick of his wand accomplished the feat very neatly, leaving the boy nude and everyone stunned. The Slytherins burst into raucous laughter, as did a few from the opposing camp. In a blink, before Potter could cover himself, let alone run away, Mulciber cast an _immobulus_ on him, then sneered, "Let this be a warning to you, Potter. Stay the f—k away from my girl." His eyes quickly scanned the other, and he scoffed maliciously, "Doesn't look like you've got much to offer a woman anyway."

With that he turned his back and strode to his friends, who received him with acclaim, all the while guarding him and keeping a wary eye on the Gryffindors racing to throw a cloak over Potter and reverse the charm on him. Another _accio_'d the boy's wand from the lake, and the crowd moved toward the castle with a multitude of evil glares at the Slytherin troupe.

"Well done, Lewis," said Tom, nodding in approval. "You not only made your point, you humbled him in the process. Claudius, excellent tactic to support your comrade. You've all demonstrated a fine example of teamwork."

And the vision ended. Severus snapped the diary shut, unaware of his trembling hand, though his pounding heart was impossible to ignore. Try as he might to elude that damned memory, it followed him like a lost puppy, hounding his steps. So, James Potter's father had got a taste of what his bully of a son later dished out, proving yet again that Fate is a fickle bitch. To Severus' dismay, he couldn't even find satisfaction in the spectacle of Potter's father tortured, not when he knew so intimately how the boy must have felt. Had it been James himself…well, the shoe would be on the other foot, and rightly so, but this was a man he knew nothing of and wished no evil upon. Had James known what happened to his sire? Would the elder Potter have warned his son against bullying if he'd known what James was up to? It was pointless to wonder, he supposed. The father likely was every bit as much a git as his son; for all Severus knew, he may have encouraged violence against Slytherins as an act of belated revenge.

As for Lewis Mulciber, he'd been an arsehole of grand proportions from his youth, evidently. He'd grown to be a cruel, hateful man to his only son, Jack, and his victory over Potter gave Severus no pleasure. How had Jack turned out so differently from his father? Certainly he'd become skilled at Dark Arts, and used them at school on more than one occasion, but if he'd been in the vicinity when Potter and Black had been torturing Severus, it would never have happened. He'd have made short work of the bastard Potter while Severus gave Sirius Black what he had coming. Or better yet, Severus would have ripped Potter a new one while Black dangled at the end of Jack's wand; either way worked.

"Severus?" Aline waited for her husband to lift his head. "You've been in here a long time."

"So I have," Severus answered softly. He reached out for the baby in her arms, brought him to his chest, and cuddled him close, looking down at the darling tyke and stroking the black down on his head. "Adriel, my son. I love you so much."

The baby cooed and swatted at his nose.

"Is something wrong? You seem sad." Aline came round to place her hands on his shoulders, to lean down with her chin on his silky black hair.

Severus hesitated. For most of his life, he'd kept his emotions and thoughts to himself, with only occasional breaches with Lucius or his mother. He hated to unload the mire from his mind onto the ones he loved, yet it would do no good to lie or evade with Aline, as time had taught him. Eventually his wife would see for herself.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'd forgotten how many memories of mine Voldemort raped over the years. I had to leave them open to him in order to make him believe I was hiding nothing." Another pause. "He liked seeing my anguish, my debasement. The whole thing stirred up a lot of bad memories for me…a lot of disquieting thoughts."

"Of what?" slipped out before Aline even thought the words. If it was about that Lily bitch, she wasn't in the mood to hear it. Then again, when was she ever _really_ in the mood to discuss Lily?

"About Dumbledore."

Okay, that was unexpected. "What about him?"

Severus sighed, stood up, and began to pace as he rocked his son. "Where's Aidan?"

"Sleeping. You're avoiding the question, honey." Which had to mean that whatever he'd been pondering seriously bothered him.

"The incident with Jonathan Avery at Hogwarts started it," Severus confessed, not looking at her. "Then, reading this entry in the diary, I can tell from the total lack of concern that even in Tom Riddle's school days, bullies and those who degraded others weren't punished, just as they weren't in my time. How many pupils over the years suffered for the negligence of their headmasters? Not only Dumbledore, but Dippet, and who knows how many others."

"I don't know, Severus. Not too many, I hope."

Had Severus not been one to obsess, she'd have thought it odd for him to dwell on it now, but she knew her husband. He'd suffered at the hands of the Marauders; he cared about the students even if he pretended not to; he cared about fairness and dignity…but there was more. This was Severus; there was always more. If he was reading about the terrible event at the lake, and she was pretty sure he was, and he was thinking about Dumbledore, it had to be on all the ways the old man had failed him.

She'd witnessed enough of Severus' run-ins with the Marauders—and accompanying lack of consequences, discipline, or attempt at reparation—to formulate a clear picture of the hell her husband had endured as a student, and later as a teacher/spy. What should have been a haven for him as a boy had been a battleground, with those in authority standing idly by. The subsequent mental trauma alone had been a monumental burden to bear, without considering the way his troubles and questions had been trivialized, dismissed, or simply ignored by Dumbledore and the perpetrators.

When this aloof attitude from the authority figure had pushed him into the arms of Voldemort in hopes of achieving justice and respect, he'd been sorely awakened to the reality of who the dark lord really was. Despite the very real possibility of death for his betrayal, Severus had approached Dumbledore to save Lily Evans' life—and had been treated to an icy reception, condemnation for his Death Eater association, and the extraction of the vow to serve the old wizard. What kind of man interested in changing the life path of a wayward son would treat him this way? What kind of man who cared for the welfare of the people in his Order would demand such a promise before making a move to help his own, when his priority should have been to willingly protect the Potters? What kind of man shamed and manipulated his spy, heaved insults at him even as he grieved the loss of the woman Dumbledore had failed to protect?

When at last Severus had been made privy to 'the plan', and had confronted Dumbledore about using him, at risk to his own life many times—and using Harry Potter like a 'pig for slaughter'—the old Headmaster had turned it back upon Severus with a depth of manipulation worthy of envy by the most heinous of villains. Never in the course of their relationship did he strive to ameliorate the young man's pain; he'd continually played on Severus' emotional vulnerability, twisting each situation to his own advantage regardless of the ravages left in its wake. Severus had clung to Dumbledore as the only one with power that he could trust, and Dumbledore had repeatedly abused that trust. How could Severus not feel betrayed and angry every time he thought of it? It made Aline sick, furious.

"Dumbledore was a bully," she said at last. "That's why he saw nothing wrong with it."

"What?"

"He used manipulation of your emotions, and insults when you craved understanding and humanity. He denigrated you at your lowest moments, to the point that you felt you had to be his lap dog to gain any semblance of value. He exploited your trust in him as a good person to get you to do what he wanted. What else would you call it?" She couldn't recall ever seeing her husband staring slack-jawed precisely that way before. But she was right: no doubt existed in her mind that he understood this as well. "Given his level of actual power, a more appropriate label may be tyrant, I suppose."

"I—I wouldn't have phrased it like that," Severus uttered in a measured, low tone. "But you're not wrong."

"I know I'm not," Aline answered, feeling another rush of warm anger to her cheeks. She put her arms around him as he adjusted the baby to accommodate her. "I wish I could take away your awful memories and heal your pain."

Severus kissed the top of her head, then rested his cheek there. "The memories make me who I am, but you've done more than you realize to heal me, Aline. Your love is a balm to my soul, and our beloved sons like sunshine bursting through the clouds."

"That's very poetic," she murmured.

"No, it's not," he grumbled back. "It's truth."

"And poetic," she insisted, smiling. She didn't need to look to know he would be smiling, too.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**Night of October 7, 2000**

By the time Regulus had apparated from Spinner's End to the northern tip of France, to Munich, to Budapest, he realized he was getting off course. One more gigantic leap southeast landed him outside Samovilla, with Durmstrang castle practically a stone's throw away. Taking in a huge breath to try quelling the nausea, he made one final apparition and ended up on the flagstones in front of the heavy wooden gate. Exhausted and sick, he fell to his knees, puking until he quite literally felt like his guts were being wrenched out.

A teacher, alerted to his presence by an alarm placed on all entrances to the castle, hauled open the gate and stood looking down at the lad in disapproval, his arms crossed over his chest. This was all he needed, another drunken student back from revelry in town—which would be offensive enough without the added repulsion of displaying his stomach's contents for all and sundry to enjoy. Tanassov would teach the brat a lesson.

"Kakvo si mislish che pravish? Pak piyanstvane, da? Tova che e sabota vecher ne e iizvinenie za takova losho povedenie! Izchisti vsichko!" (_What do you think you're doing? Out drinking, were you? Just because it is Saturday night doesn't give you an excuse for this vile behaviour! Clean it up!)_

Regulus raised his head and blinked his bleary eyes. "Sorry, I don't speak Russian. Or Bulgarian…or whatever." He spit one final time, took out his wand, and _scourgified_ his face and clothes, then vanished the puddle of vomit. It would be rude to leave it there. He stumbled to his feet, barely supported by rubbery legs. _I've got to stop apparating so far after I eat._ "Could you please take me to Dimitar Tanassov? It's important."

The professor, whose English was not nearly as proficient as the Headmaster's, nevertheless understood the bulk of the boy's ramblings, and was only too happy to take him to Tanassov. He led Regulus down hallways, and up stairs, and around a turret—seriously, Reg began to wonder if he was getting the full tour. Finally they halted in front of a sturdy oak door and the professor knocked.

They entered with the teacher shoving Regulus ahead of him. "Gospodin Directore, tova momche iska da govori s Vas. Kazva che e vazhno. I mi se struva che mai e bolen." (_Mister Headmaster, this boy wants to speak to you. He says it is important. And I think he may be ill.)_

"Blagodarya Vi, gospodin Zlatev," (_Thank you, Mr. Zlatev)_ said the Headmaster, beckoning the youth forward. "Are you not one of the Black brothers?"

"Yes, sir," Reg answered, extending a hand. "We met when you came to help us destroy the demon amulet. I'm Regulus."

"It is a pleasure to see you again. What can I do for you? Are you ill?" Tanassov shook his hand and settled back in his chair as Regulus flopped into the chair on the other side of the desk, pulling a face at the odd question.

"Um, no—well, I was barfing, but that was from apparating so far. Lucius Malfoy sent me." Regulus noted how the bearded wizard raised his chin a touch in recognition. "He sent this letter for you." Reg dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a parchment that had seen better days. He handed it to Tanassov.

The Bulgarian unrolled it and read a short, cryptic message introducing Regulus as 'an ambassador in the ongoing exchange concerning the gem of great worth'. Obviously Draco—or not so obviously for anyone who wasn't aware of Draco's presence and who knew Durmstrang held an abundance of valuable gems throughout the castle, molded into walls, woven into tapestries, and incorporated into several rare amulets and talismans.

Tanassov nodded and rose to his feet. "Come. I will show you to Draco, but he may be asleep. You are welcome to spend the night and visit him tomorrow."

"Thank you," Reg answered, jogging to catch up. As much as he wanted to see Draco, he really could use a good night's sleep.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 8, 2000**

One week ago today, Oksana had disappeared. Not that Dragomir was cognizant of the number of days that had gone by, though he understood the longer she was gone, the worse Bori felt. Personally, if he never saw that yellow-headed, bed-stealing, squalling human again, it would be no scales off his back. Nonetheless, Bori was miserable; he never wanted to play anymore, he barked at the other men when he spoke at all…he was plain no fun. Drago had tried to get him to follow to the special place, with no success, so he resorted to the only thing left to him: he ran away again.

He was beginning to think he'd be stuck in this thicketed area beneath the trees forever when he heard Borimetchka's soothing, deep voice calling to him. He answered with a snort of fire into the air, followed by a whinnying rumble in his throat that exploded into a shriek when he opened his mouth.

"Dragomir, come here," Bori called. He was much closer now.

The dragon steadfastly refused to obey, instead waiting for the man to plow through the underbrush to where he sat on his haunches. At last the huge wizard burst through into the little clearing, caught sight of his apparently unharmed pet, and breathed a sigh of relief—right before dipping his brows crossly.

"Why do you keep doing this? I'm tired of chasing you all over the countryside!" he snapped. He'd been fearful of never finding the petulant creature, and if Viktor hadn't told him where he'd found Dragomir last time, he very well may have never looked here.

When he reached out to grab the animal, Drago bolted away further into the clearing, turned left, and…disappeared. That is, his _head_ disappeared, to Bori's shock and revulsion. He tore after the dragon, his heart skipping every other beat, and stopped cold. Dragomir's head wasn't missing, he'd thrust it through a hole in the wall of an invisible structure—from the looks of the twig and mud construction around the opening, an ancient, tiny cabin.

Bori drew his wand. No one charmed a home to be invisible from the outside unless they had something to hide, and invisibility charms had to be reapplied frequently, meaning someone was likely still here, or had been very recently and may return. A fugitive, perhaps. He tapped Dragomir's back and motioned for him to move away. The dragon withdrew his head from the gaping hole, pulling some loose sticks and muddy straw along with him. The wizard cautiously peered inside. It consisted of a single room with a washstand at the far end next to the fireplace, and a bed taking up the greatest portion. And there was a man on the bed.

Wand first, Bori stooped down, put one foot inside, and entered. His black hair brushed the low ceiling when he stood up to approach the bed, where a man he'd seen a few times on visits to Ukrainian camps lay spread-eagle, his wrists and ankles bound to the four posts of the bed. Oleksandr…Sashko.

"Bori! Help me!" Sashko pleaded, struggling at the ropes cutting into his flesh.

The big man glared down at him. "Where is Oksana?"

"I don't know. She tied me up and left last night."

Bori's heart did a flip and skip. That meant she was alive! "Why would she do this?"

"I don't know," moaned Sashko. "I think she's gone crazy. I…I think she killed Draco Malfoy."

Damn it, why couldn't anything ever be easy? Because he didn't know anything for sure, Bori didn't know what to believe. Oksana had left her wand and run off to meet Sashko? It didn't make sense. If she'd killed 'Draco', why hadn't her wand said so? And why leave through a hole in the wall instead of through the door? And yet, Sashko was bound to the bed and Oksana was gone. This wasn't the end of it. If Bori could be sure of one thing, it was that Tanassov could get to the bottom of it, could wring the truth from Sashko without lifting a finger to harm him. From there, Bori would decide what to do.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Bori arrived at Durmstrang carrying a _petrified_ Sashko over his shoulder as if the man were a sack of potatoes. In Tanassov's office, he watched as the Headmaster dosed Oleksandr with Veritaserum, then stepped back a couple of paces.

"Do you speak Bulgarian?" asked Tanassov.

"Yes," answered Sashko dopily. "Pretty well, not as good as Ukrainian."

"Where is Oksana?"

"I don't know. She ran off, left me." He looked ready to cry.

"Tell me what happened on October first at Borimetchka's camp," Tanassov instructed him.

Sashko blinked a few times and his gaze drifted to the ceiling. "I went to see her, to take her with me. But I saw Malfoy in that expensive cloak, the hood pulled up against the cold, and I got so angry. The rich bastard tried to steal her from me; I _hate_ him. I hit him with a dark spell my grandfather taught me…probably killed him right off. The dragon pen was open, so I figured he'd let it escape. I may as well make it look like the dragon did it, so I burned him and the ground, but I had to hurry before anybody saw me. Oksana came out of the big cabin, and I shot an _expelliarmus_, grabbed her, and disapparated. I thought we were happy, and then she left me…" Here he burst into tears.

Bori, giving a disgusted, fierce look, growled, "You raped her, didn't you?"

Sashko raised his disheveled head, sniffled, and glanced the big man's way. "No…not really. She said she didn't want to, but she loves me, I know she wanted me—"

He quit talking very abruptly when Bori's massive hands wrapped around his throat, choking the life out of him. Bori refused to desist at Tanassov's shouted direction to do so, and only a _stupefy_ that sent him crumpling to the floor spared Sashko's life.

"I won't have you going to prison on his account," Tanassov explained to Bori after he'd secured Sashko in another room of the castle and sent for the aurors. "What he did is horrible, but he honestly believes he did no wrong. He's unbalanced. The law will decide what to do with him."

"And what about Oksana?" Bori choked out.

"Yes, what about her? She's undoubtedly distraught, frightened. You need to talk to everyone you know, try to find out where she might have gone." He laid a comforting hand on Bori's shoulder as he might do to a distressed student in his charge. "You'll find her. If I may make a suggestion, Viktor Krum's girlfriend works for the Ministry, doesn't she? I suspect she may have access to information and channels that we do not."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

This was more like it. Safe and warm in the cheery big room with loads of beds—none of which the mean man in black let him use—Dragomir huddled next to Draco's bed, purring as the wizard stroked his snout.

"Can I pet him?" asked Regulus, eager yet wary. He wasn't in any hurry to lose a hand or end up with a charred face.

Draco nodded. "Dragomir, this is Regulus. Be nice to him."

The dragon cocked his head as if to say he didn't appreciate the implication that he _wouldn't_ be nice. He was _always_ nice…except when he pouted or threw a tantrum, and that only happened when humans weren't kind to him.

"He saw Oksana!" Draco blurted as Reg tentatively drew his fingers along the animal's hide. "Dimitar Tanassov said that Oleksandr was found in a little cabin. I got an image of Dragomir seeing Oksana there. He led Bori there to find her."

"But Tanassov said the cabin was under an invisibility charm," Regulus argued.

"I guess dragons can see through that magic." Draco bent over to place his cheek on Dragomir's, and the dragon's purrs resounded through the room. "He doesn't know where she is now," he added glumly.

"You can't figure out everything, Draco. They'll find her."

For a long moment the other youth said nothing. Quietly, almost guiltily, he murmured, "Artem was wearing my cloak. I had set it down on the fence when I approached Omen because I didn't want it to get dirty. Artem must have taken it. He was probably only trying it on, and he died for that!"

"It's not your fault," Reg said softly.

Face averted so the other couldn't see the tears forming in his eyes, Draco replied, "Oleksandr wanted to kill _me_. How can I think it's not my fault that a good man died in my place?"

"Because it isn't!" Regulus snapped, immediately sorry for the harsh tone. "Draco, you can't control what other people do. That guy is a crazy git."

There was no answer from Malfoy, who seemed to be finding the sheet very interesting all of a sudden.

"At least one good thing came out today—Oleksandr confessed to murdering that bloke, so you're off the hook," said Reg, trying to cheer him up. "There shouldn't be an arrest warrant now—speaking of which, I'd better get back to Malfoy Manor. Your parents will be thrilled to hear this."

"Yeah, you'd better go," Draco agreed, attempting a smile. "Send them my love." As Reg left the room, he failed to see a tear slipping down his cousin's cheek.


	37. Gamut of Emotions

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 37 (Gamut of Emotions)

**October 9, 2000**

He would have preferred a dragon, if given the choice, which he was not. Draco had been informed by Tanassov that his wand had been returned, he was officially no longer a murder suspect, and he was going home. 'Going home', however, had not been as simple as flooing or apparating, or a combination of the two, for the healer insisted both could be detrimental to him because of the recent concussion. No, he was to fly—and not on a broom, this being a great distance—he was to use one of the winged horses Tanassov had brought to Snape's wedding. Alright, that wasn't so bad…except that Tanassov would be riding with him to insure he got home safely. All in all, it made Draco feel like a baby.

Several hours later they landed on the front lawn of Malfoy Manor, and Draco slid off the massive animal's back, followed by the Durmstrang Headmaster. "It's good to be home," Draco murmured to no one in particular.

He led the way to the front door, leaving the horse chomping on one of his mother's rose bushes. The door was not locked, and he opened it to call out, "Sisidy!"

The elf appeared instantly; her enormous eyes grew two sizes, and she leapt at the youth, hugging his legs and singing, "Master Draco! Master Draco comes home!"

"Sisidy…" He petted the elf's head awkwardly. He'd never really liked house elves, probably because of that nasty Dobby, though Sisidy had always been nothing but delightful to him. She nuzzled her face into his calves and he smiled in spite of himself. "I want you to tell my parents I'm here." He'd barely finished the command when she popped out. Draco turned to Tanassov. "I need to thank you again for everything you've done for me. You must stay for dinner, we'll not take 'no' for an answer. In addition, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like before returning to Bulgaria."

"That is a generous offer," Tanassov said, inclining his head.

"Draco!" Narcissa ran to him and snatched him in her arms. "My baby, are you alright? Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"

"Mother, it's wonderful to see you." He pressed her to his chest, burying his face in her hair and effectively hiding the joyful tears creeping into his eyes. Lucius shook hands with Tanassov before giving his son a tremendous hug.

At last Lucius disengaged himself and straightened his robes. "Mr. Tanassov, there are no words to express our gratitude for saving our son, for keeping him safe, and now for bringing him home."

"You are most welcome, Mr. Malfoy."

"Forgive us, we're not thinking clearly. Please, won't you come in?" Lucius ushered him along to the parlour, with Narcissa clinging to Draco as they followed behind. Sisidy brought up the rear, hopping gleefully along with her fist gripping the young master's pantleg all the way. Lucius waited till all were seated before saying, "Before dinner I'd like to broach the topic of remuneration for your efforts."

"I did not do it for repayment," Tanassov objected, coming across a tad offended.

Lucius snapped his fingers at Sisidy, who jumped to the sideboard to begin serving drinks. "My wife and I are aware of that, Mr. Tanassov, but I insist. Our son means the world to us, and you must understand our need to express appreciation in a tangible way. If you won't accept anything for yourself, at least accept a donation to your school or to a charity of your choice. That's all I'll say about it for the moment; you think on it, and let me know what you decide."

"I will certainly give it thought," agreed Tanassov. He sipped at the wine Sisidy had brought him. "As for Draco, it is imperative that he be under a healer's care for a minimum of two weeks. Because of the severity of his concussion, he should not use the floo or apparate during this time, not until he is fully recovered."

"I'll notify Dr. Livingston immediately," said Narcissa. Draco had finally wiggled out of her grasp, all but one hand she held firm.

"And he needs rest," Tanassov added. "He should not entertain a lot of company."

"I feel fine, sir," Draco protested.

"You'll do as you're told, son," Lucius replied, cocking his head and arching his eyebrows ever so slightly in the 'don't you dare argue with me' manner with which Draco was so familiar, yet to an observer may go unnoticed. "Sorry, but there will be no parties, no carousing."

"I don't carouse," Draco retorted with a smirk. "But I will follow doctor's orders. When do we eat? It was a long ride here, and I'm sure we're both famished."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Hermione, I vant to go along. I vant to help," Viktor pleaded, his dark eyes looking positively stormy.

Bori had come to him—and through him, to Hermione—for assistance in finding Oksana. Hermione had used her connections in the Bulgarian Ministry to contact the Ukrainian Ministry and, as a political favour, they had come up with a list of addresses: Oksana's home of record, grandparents, extended relatives.

"Viktor, I'm sorry. I know you feel awful, you're berating yourself for not realizing she was so close, but it isn't your fault," Hermione reasoned.

"I smelled smoke. I vas _right there_," he answered. "All I had to do was call out, or look around, and I didn't."

Hermione pulled him in and he automatically wrapped her in his arms. "Agonizing over it doesn't change anything, my love. The cabin was under an invisibility spell, you couldn't have seen it. And I'm afraid after what's happened to Oksana…well, I just don't think it's the best idea for a man to show up looking for her."

"Bori is a man," argued Viktor feebly. He knew she was right. After the trauma Oksana had gone through, it might frighten her to see a virtual male stranger, albeit a famous one. "Be careful."

"I will." She kissed her fiancé once, then smashed her lips on his in a fit of passion. "I love you, Viktor. I'll be back as soon as I can."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Oksana was not at her family home, situated at the edge of a tiny village populated with small houses. No one had been there, in fact, for quite a while by the looks of the ramshackle little house, with broken windows and holes in the porch. A neighbor, watching the unusual activity of the couple peering in the windows, and Bori bursting through the door to check inside, calmly informed them that Oksana had not lived there since she'd gone off to school; her mother had forthwith abandoned the family, and her father had died of alcoholism a few years later. She had no siblings.

"You could ask at her grandmother's house—oh, I forgot, she died two years ago. Well, I don't know where she might be." The woman shrugged and crossed her arms.

Bori and Hermione made the rounds of three more addresses, only to be told that no one had seen the missing woman. Bori poked a thick finger at the paper in Hermione's hand. "We try the grandmother's house."

"But she's dead," countered the witch.

"The house ees probably still there," Bori replied. The dark circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced in the sunlight.

He took Hermione's hand and they apparated to the outskirts of the tiny village, where the closest neighbor was a quarter mile away. In front of them stood a one-room, unpainted wooden shack that had seen better days. Slats of wood peeled from one wall. Bori nudged her and pointed to the thin trail of smoke coming from the chimney.

Hermione nodded, sucked in a determined breath, and walked up alone onto the porch. She knocked loudly; inside she heard the scrape of a chair on the floor. "Oksana? My name is Hermione Granger. I'm a…a friend of Draco Malfoy." Wow, that hurt coming out!

The door opened a slit, enough for Hermione to note the eyes red-rimmed from crying, the exhausted, despairing expression the witch wore. "What do you want? To tell me is my fault he is dead?"

"He's not dead."

"Sashko told me—"

"I know what he said," Hermione interrupted, in a hurry to give the woman peace of mind. "Borimetchka found Sashko, and he confessed to the murder, but it wasn't Draco. It was a man named Artem."

Oksana recoiled a bit, stricken. How could this be? Oleksandr was familiar with Draco, surely he knew whom he had killed! And even if this was true, Artem had been a good, gentle man; he didn't deserve such an end, either. "How do you know this?"

"Draco was carried off by a dragon and dropped near Durmstrang. Dimitar Tanassov has been taking care of him, and he's alright," Hermione explained, placing a hand on the door. "Oleksandr has been arrested. You're safe now." She lowered her voice. "The Ministry may call you as a witness at his trial…and Bori has come to see you, if that's okay."

Oksana's blue eyes widened, and she let the door swing open. Cautiously, hugging herself with her arms, she inched onto the porch, glancing around. During her captivity, she'd dreamed of Bori coming to rescue her, but when he hadn't she'd begun to fear that he believed she was scum, that she'd gone willingly. Why _was_ he here? "Hello, Bori."

The huge man strode as far as the porch and stopped, his gaze never wavering from her as if afraid she'd disappear again. "Oksana." His tongue seemed to have swelled in his mouth. "I—I am glad you are vell."

"Thank you."

There was an uncomfortable silence before the statement came out of nowhere, so full of vitriol and malice it scarcely seemed possible Borimetchka had said it. "Sashko vill go to prison for killing Artem. He deserve to die for it, and for vhat he did to you!"

The witch blinked and gasped, shrinking back against the door although Bori remained on the ground below. "What do you mean?"

"He violated you! He told me."

The fierce expression he wore Oksana mistook for scorn directed at her, rather than righteous fury at Sashko, and suddenly the weight of her burden became too much. Feeling dirty and worthless, she burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. "I let him," she cried, backing away when Hermione came closer. "I was afraid, so I let him do whatever he wanted."

"You did what you had to do to stay alive," Hermione said softly. "No one blames you."

"Bori does," she sobbed.

Borimetchka lifted his chin, shocked at her declaration. "No, Oksana, never! Shtyah da udusha Oleksandr, no Tanassov me sprya. Shte se dobera do tova bolnavo kopele i shte go dovarsha…" (_I tried to strangle Oleksandr, but Tanassov stopped me. I will get to that sick bastard and finish it…)_ His jaw clenched with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Ne iskam da go ubivash!" (_I don't want you to kill him!)_ shrilled Oksana, raising her tearstained face to him. "Ne iskam nikoi poveche da umira!" (_I don't want anybody else to die!)_

"He won't," Hermione assured her, her glare shooting daggers at Bori. "He's upset, but he won't harm anyone. Why don't you tell us how you escaped. You were very brave to turn the tables and get away."

Oksana sighed heavily. "He had me in the cabin, with spells so I could not apparate or leave through the door or window. One day he leaves to get food…"

_He was gone. Oksana sprang to the window, flung it open, and thrust an arm through—or tried to. She banged and slammed at it, yet literally could not move her body past the sill. The ward he'd used on the door had apparently been placed on the window as well, precluding escape. She was trapped, trapped like an animal waiting for her captor to return._

_ In desperation she turned a full circle, looking for something, __anything__ that could help her. The only furniture was the bed, which was very sturdy; she could not conceivably break it apart for a weapon. The washstand consisted of a shelf built into the wall. No help there. She could hit him with the basin, maybe, but if it didn't knock him out, would he kill her?_

_ She had to get out. Eventually he'd tire of keeping her here, and he couldn't very well let her go, not after what he'd done. There was no escape, the ceiling was solid beam—the walls. They were not wooden like those she had grown up in. This was an old, old cabin, and if her instincts were right… She rushed to the spot next to the window, opposite the bed, lifted her foot high, and lashed out with the sole of her shoe against the adobe wall as hard as she could. The force of it knocked her backward, yet it also left a dent in the wall. She kicked again, over and over, until the mud cracked and dropped at her feet, and the straw and twigs inside were readily visible. She dropped to her knees to claw at the dried mud, raking it onto the floor, tearing out chunks of sticks and straw used as a binding compound._

_ At last there it was, the sun streaming in the fist-sized hole. Tentatively she stuck a hand in and wiggled it in the air outside. It worked! With renewed vigor she alternately kicked and scratched, enlarging the hole, oblivious to anything else._

_ "What are you doing?"_

_ Oksana whirled with a surprised squeal. Sashko stood in the doorway, holding a sack and looking very displeased. The words came of their own accord, from where she had no idea. "I—I accidentally hit the wall, and it broke. I was putting this straw back in and I thought I saw something gleaming, like a jewel. I was trying to get at it." She pointed at a little piece to the left, gesturing for him to come look._

_ She fully expected him to scoff and hex her, yet he set the bag on the floor and wandered over to her. "Where?"_

_ "There." She pointed again. "I'll bet whoever built this place hid it, and it's worth a lot of money."_

_ "I don't see anything," said Sashko, backing away. "And if there was a jewel, the owner wouldn't leave it behind."_

_ "Maybe he died," Oksana persisted._

_ Sashko shook his head, took out his wand, and made to repair the wall. It was now or never. Oksana lurched at him and snatched the wand from his hand, but he grabbed her wrists. Being far stronger than she, he had no trouble halting her right there, and he began to force her arms down. Struggling wildly, she tried for a knee to the groin, and when he evaded it, she kicked—his shins, his feet, anything within reach._

_ One hit a very painful spot, for he howled and let go for only a second, a second she used to __petrify__ him. When his stiff body fell to the floor, she fell down as well, panting and hysterical. After a few minutes she got a grip on herself and levitated him onto the bed, conjured ropes, and tied him down. She'd meant to let him stew there for a while before notifying the authorities, let him see what it felt like to be a prisoner._

_ With the newly acquired wand, she blasted the hole large enough to maneuver through, and she was free._

"And here I am," she finished glumly, not a hint of pride in her accomplishment, or even looking happy to be free. Too much had happened for that.

"Come to the camp vith me," Bori said softly. "You should not be alone." When she said nothing, he continued in a bare whisper, "Sazhalyavam che ne mozhah da te zashtitya. Ako byah znael che toi e tam…" (_I'm sorry I didn't protect you. If I'd known he was there…)_

"Ne e tvoya rabota da me zashtitavash," (_It's not your job to protect me)_ she murmured.

His eyes darkened like storm clouds overcoming the sun. "Moya e! Kogato edin mazh obicha edna zhena, tova si mu e rabota." _(Yes, it is! When a man loves a woman, it is his job.)_ A job he'd failed miserably at, and she had suffered for it.

Oksana stared at him, her eyes registering a bewildered shock. She'd known he was attracted to her, their earlier conversation the night of the concert in Sofia had proven that, but _love_? He didn't act like any of the other wizards who'd claimed to love her, who'd been anxious always to get into her pants. Bori was able to keep his distance from her, to command his actions despite his feelings. It confused her. And frankly, after this week with Sashko, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to trust a man again, let alone allow herself to have emotions for him.

For now, though, Bori's presence comforted her, and she needed that. She nodded at his offer to go back to the camp as she said, "Radvam se che doide, Bori." (_I'm glad you came, Bori.)_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 10, 2000**

Severus spent little time at Spinner's End these days—practically none, in fact. And he didn't miss it, not really. Alright, not at all. Sure, he had a tenuous attachment to the old dump as the place he'd grown up in, but since Aline and Narcissa's cleaning/redecorating spree some time back, he scarcely recognized it anyway. He did miss Regulus, though, and when Aline had decided to cut short their post-baby date to go back and visit with Reg, he hadn't objected. He was beginning to regret that.

With an inane comedy show blaring from the telly in the living room, Severus, Aline, Regulus, Bayly, and Gloria crowded in the kitchen to partake of the feast Kreacher had so thoughtfully—and quickly—prepared. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, fresh bread, hot tea, iced tea, milk. Admittedly Severus felt a bit guilty for enjoying the meal as much as he did, for Aline may be loads of wonderful things, but an adequate cook was not one of them. He didn't get a lot of good food at home, and if he took supper in the Great Hall too often, he'd feel like he was neglecting his wife.

"Kreacher, you've outdone yourself," Reg pronounced.

The elf went into a mini-seizure of spastic delight, grinning and bowing and hopping around the table. "Master Regulus is too kind to poor Kreacher." He heaped another portion of everything onto the young man's plate, and approached Severus with upraised spoon. "More for Mister Snape? He's looking skinny, more than usual."

"I get plenty to eat at home, thank you," Snape answered defensively.

"Kreacher, this is delicious," Aline piped up, unaware of her husband's stalwart defense of her. With Adriel sitting on her lap, leaning against her, and her arm snugly tucked about his waist, she took another bite of mashed potatoes. Adriel's round brown eyes followed the motion, and he smacked his lips.

"Here, kid." Regulus stuck his little finger in his potatoes and held it up to the baby's mouth. Adriel's tongue flicked out to taste it, and an instant later his mouth engulfed the finger with slurps and smacks.

"Regulus!" Severus barked. "He's not old enough for real food. He's not even six weeks yet."

"But he likes it," protested Reg, pulling his hand away, to the infant's displeasure.

Aline smiled at Regulus while bouncing the tyke on her lap; he was straining forward, stubby arms outstretched and fists grasping for the food on her plate. "It's okay, Reg. A bit of mashed potatoes won't hurt him. My mom fed it to us when we were babies." The expression she shot her husband clearly said he'd better not make anything of it.

Seeing his brother grabbing at the big-people food, Aidan gave a disgruntled whine and swiped a hand at Severus' fork as it lifted from the plate. He jarred his father's arm, causing the carrot slices to land all over the floor and the man's lap. "Way to teach the babies manners," he growled.

Bayly and Gloria had merely sat quietly during the exchange, not taking sides nor offering advice that neither felt equipped to dole out. Bayly blatantly changed the topic with, "So, Aline, are you and Professor Snape going to ask Winky to be your family elf?"

"Now that you've got two babies, it must be hard to keep the house clean, and cook, and shop—well, everything," Gloria added.

The Snape couple exchanged a meaningful look, and Aline nodded. "Yes, I guess so. I've been reluctant because I feel like I ought to be able to do everything myself, but my cooking is starting to suffer—"

Severus choked on the bite of bread he'd started to swallow, though he waved his wife away as he washed it down with a sip of tea. _Starting to suffer?_ It had obviously been beaten and tortured long before Severus ever made Aline's acquaintance. "Go on, dear."

"You're alright? Anyway, I just can't find time to keep house properly. I'm so tired that a few days ago when I folded the laundry, I actually stacked the blue towels with the red ones—and didn't notice! Can you imagine?"

Bayly had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Poor anal Aline, it must have been quite a shock to her system to discover her obsessions being toyed with. "I'm sure Winky will be thrilled to be a Snape elf."

"Come on, people, finish up so we can watch the movie I rented," Regulus prodded. "I have it on good authority that it's awesome. The popcorn is already on the coffee table, and the movie's waiting in the VCR."

"I thought Jacinta and Theo were supposed to come," said Aline.

Gloria shook her head. "They owled a while before you got here. They went up to see his family."

"Theo's been worried about Jacinta," said Bayly. He immediately wished he could stuff the words back in his mouth. He'd almost let slip Theo's insecurities about George Weasley, and since he hoped for a calm, pleasant evening—which would not happen if Professor Snape thought there was a snowball's chance in hell of his daughter ending up with a Weasley—it would be unwise to steer the conversation in that direction. "I mean, he's worried he hasn't been spending enough time with her. So, Reg, what's the name of the movie?"

"_Die Hard_."

Halfway through the film, sitting on the couch beside Aline, who was breastfeeding Aidan while Severus rocked the sated, sleepy Adriel, Severus noticed Regulus casting a sidelong glance his way. A bit later, the younger man held a bemused second glimpse; soon it morphed into an outright stare.

"Gawk at me one more time and lose an eye," Snape said drolly.

Regulus blew out a puff of breath. "That's all _you_ know. For your information, I was looking at Aline." His eyes flickered to the witch, noted the semi-bared breast, and hurriedly turned his head in embarrassment.

"Pervert," Severus snarled, secretly amused at his friend's reaction.

"Alright, I was looking at you," Reg confessed. "Seriously, I can't be the only one who notices."

By now everyone was listening. "Notices what?" asked Gloria.

"Hans Gruber."

"What about him?" asked Bayly.

Regulus sighed impatiently, gesturing from the telly to Severus. "Does he perhaps resemble someone in this room?" They all peered about, shrugging and murmuring noncommittally. "Sev, he's you! The nose, the eyes, the face…the nose."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Striking observation, Reg. I have a nose."

"Maybe he does bear a little resemblance," Aline said, studying her husband. "But the hair is way off, all short and brown—and the facial hair."

"Put black hair on Hans, and you've got Severus," declared Reg. What was wrong with these people? "He's a freaking clone! He even _drawls_. Bayly, come on, you see it!"

Not wanting to get mixed up in an argument, Bayly simply uttered, "We're missing the movie."

"It's a video, we can run it back. Can't we, _Hans_?" Regulus gave a wicked grin, expecting Snape to rebut. He was not wholly disappointed.

"Hans Gruber, my arse." It wasn't up to Severus' usual biting standards, but it would do.

Unable to let this one pass, Bayly chimed in, "We weren't looking at his arse." He and Reg broke into guffaws.

"But now that you mention it—" Gloria began, smirking.

Laughing along with the others, Aline said, "Watch it, Gloria, that's my man…or his doppelganger. You know, Severus, I could see you with a beard and mustache like Hans. Very sexy."

"Could we please watch the bloody film?" snapped Severus.

"Yippy-ki-yay, motherfu—" Reg bit off the last word without finishing it. The sour look on Snape's face told him he'd pressed it to the limit.

Bayly leaned over to Regulus, his face split in a wide grin. "Best line ever! You were right, this movie is awesome."

"Told you." Reg aimed the controller at the VCR and rewound it to the spot where they'd begun talking over it. Not looking at his friend, but with a twinkle in his eyes, he said, "You know what's funniest of all? Hans Gruber is a terrorist, and he still smiles more than you, Sev."

"Keep it up, Regulus. When I hex you into next week, believe me—I'll be smiling."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Snogging sessions were par for the course for this couple, though a playground in a Scottish hamlet was the latest venue. Theo's hand slid down Jacinta's jacketed back, paused a millisecond, and dove down to squeeze her bum. She jerked slightly, and suddenly the swing he was on lurched away to swing apart from hers. He dragged his foot in the dirt to bring him to a stop.

"What'd you do that for?" he asked.

"We're in public, Theo," she replied, delivering a sweeping arm motion to encompass the area—a deserted flat field, two teeter-totters, rusting monkey bars, and a swing set.

Theo obligingly glanced around. The only movement came from the swing on his other side rocking gently in the cool breeze. "There's nobody here. I'd hardly call that 'public'."

"People could show up," she argued.

"I've come here with Missy loads of times, and I hardly ever see anybody else," he shot back, his brows furrowed and his lips set in a pinching pout. "Don't you want me to touch you?"

Jacinta moved her swing closer and swept back the hair from his face. He was so handsome, so sweet—and so horny. She hated working him up, while at the same time she craved nearness with him. It was a fine line to walk, and not always to his liking. "I love how you caress me, and I love touching you, too. Just not where someone can see us."

"I'm sorry." Theo stood up and wrapped her in his wiry arms. "I get carried away when I'm with you. I forget the rest of the world."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," she said, smiling.

"After supper with my folks, let's go out. We haven't really had a date in ages." Theo cupped her face in his hands and planted a smooch on her lips. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

"Anywhere?" Jacinta asked, eyebrows raised. While she knew Theo had 'played muggle' in the past with his school gang, including Draco, she wasn't sure how deep into muggle culture he'd actually ever gone. "My Papa took me to a carnival when I was a baby, but I don't remember it. Regulus took Bayly and Draco over a year ago, and they had fun." The expression growing on Theo's face seemed a cross between 'Get to the point' and 'You want to _what?_' "So anyway, I heard about a carnival that's still open, this is the last week of the year, and I think we'd have a good time."

"Of course, my dear, whatever you want," cooed Theo, feigning a smile. Draco had given an in-depth rant on that expedition, and it didn't exactly seem like Theo's idea of fun, what with the muggles screaming like they were being murdered, and the cheating at the gaming tables. Honestly, the only reason he could imagine them subjecting themselves to such terrifying events as cars rolling off mountains was _because_ they were muggles and didn't know any better.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

What was he doing here? Merlin's big, fat, bloody ghost, he could have just told Jacinta how ridiculous this idea was—if he wanted her to sulk at him, call him a coward, or think him less of a man. Nope, none of those were viable options, so here he sat in a tiny steel car next to her, the only thing standing between them and certain death a thin bar slung over their laps. Yes, it made him feel oh-so-confident.

The rollercoaster cranked up the first hill slowly, so painfully slowly a person would have time for his life to flash before his eyes five or six times. So far, so good. If his fists hadn't melded themselves to the bar, Theo would have held his girlfriend's hand; he settled for looking over at her, and felt vaguely relieved to see fear etched on her face as well. The shrill screams of the most recent occupants apparently hadn't gone over her head.

"You can see a long way from up here," he said. In point of fact, the view proved rather magnificent, not only of the colored, flashing lights, and tents, and games here at the fair, but further out to the city just beyond. It was exquisite, like being on top of the world.

Jacinta's eyes shifted from the tracks ahead to gaze out over the entire area. "Wow, it really is cool—as Reg would say," she added, smiling.

_Click, click, click_. The machine brought them closer to their doom. Up they went, right to the summit, and paused, the suspense so strong the wizard's and witch's stomachs contracted. All at once, the train rounded the hump in a smooth motion that sent them hurtling—to their perspective—straight down to their demise. As they careened headlong toward the tracks below, holding onto the flimsy bar for dear life, the roar of screaming voices and euphoric shouts drowned their own…they'd gone halfway down before Theo realized that the gruesome screaming in his ears was his own.

The car rounded a sharp turn at the bottom, flew up another hill, and plunged gaily down, to the joyful accompaniment of terror within. By the end of the ride, both Jacinta and Theodore disembarked on shaky legs, grateful to be alive and, not surprisingly to anyone who's ever ridden a rollercoaster, giggling at the head rush it had given them.

Theo took her hand and led her a distance away where they could recuperate. "That was incredible, wasn't it?"

"I loved it!" Jacinta agreed. "Scary but fun. Now I have to use the loo." She pointed across the field to a row of port-a-potties.

"I'll get us something at this concession stand," he answered. He managed to get through the short line to purchase a sugary funnel cake and a fizzy orange-flavoured drink that made his throat hurt but tasted so good. He'd stepped aside to wait for his lady when he heard his name called.

"Theo!" Daphne, dragging a jean-clad Sirius Black along, stopped in front of him. She was wearing low cut slacks and a soft, burgundy sweater that complemented her dark hair. "What a surprise to see you here. Are you alone?"

"No, I'm with Jacinta," he said, nodding curtly in greeting to Black.

"Oh." Daphne paused momentarily. "You're still seeing her, then?"

"Evidently," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason. Just that Harry Potter told Sirius that George Weasley has been—"

Here Sirius broke in, looking annoyed and a little guilty. "Daphne, he doesn't want to hear gossip."

"What about George Weasley?" asked Jacinta, walking up behind Theo and taking her place beside him. "If it has something to do with me, and it seems to, I'd certainly like to hear it."

"Keep in mind I'm saying this as a friend," Daphne answered, the glint in her eye bespeaking otherwise. She was not now, nor had she ever been, friends with Jacinta. They hadn't grown up together, or gone to school together, or been in a clique together—if it weren't for Draco, they likely never would have met at all, and neither would have given a rat's arse. She was, however, clever enough to spot the dubious look on Jacinta's face that said as much. "He said Weasley fancies you."

Eerily silent pause. "That's it? You're astounded to see me with my boyfriend because George allegedly fancies me? Did you expect me to throw myself into his waiting arms? And for the record, I don't believe a word of it. He's a nice bloke is all."

"You've spent quite a lot of time with him." Daphne smiled innocently and sipped at the drink Sirius shoved at her.

"Painting a portrait," Jacinta shot back, not caring for the innuendo.

Sirius tugged at Daphne's arm. "Let it go, Daphne." To the others he offered an apologetic grin. "I shouldn't have repeated what Harry said. I didn't mean any harm."

"No harm done," said Jacinta, purposely cuddling up to Theo.

The young wizard handed her the funnel cake and put his arm round her shoulders. "As long as Jacinta is mine, I don't care what Weasley thinks." _The problem is making sure she stays mine._ With that he steered his witch away, the image of that redheaded pain in the arse burning in his brain.

Something had to be done. No matter what Jacinta said, Theodore Nott was no fool. She may not _plan_ to be led astray by the likes of Weasley, who was smooth and dashing, and had that whole poor-me-my-brother-is-dead line to work on the women. But it wouldn't be the first time charm had stolen away fair lady. Weasley had outright said he had no intention of backing off, and now he'd put out the word. Well, the gauntlet had been thrown down.

"Theo, what are you thinking?" Jacinta looked up at him with concern etched on her features. "I'm not involved with George."

"I know, sweetheart." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. He'd put it off long enough; time to set into motion the plan to make sure she was never tempted to find out if she liked Weasley's company on a more intimate level. "Let's not spoil our night. Come on, there are games over here, maybe I can win you a prize."


	38. Murky Futures

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 38 (Murky Futures)

**October 11, 2000**

For some reason, Severus had become enthralled with reading those parts of the diaries relating to himself. Not that he didn't find the rest riveting as well, but—simply put, he was very curious to see what spin Voldemort's batty mind would put on an activity or gathering that Snape had been party to, and could therefore gauge from his own perspective. Here he'd found several entries in a row, so he naturally began to peruse from the start.

_Sept. 2, 1980_

_ The prophecy Severus brought me troubles me greatly. I can think of only one wizard powerful enough to challenge me, yet it cannot be Dumbledore…the prophecy says a child born at the end of July. It is a relief, yet an annoyance. Dumbledore cannot defeat me, but another is coming, or rather has come. I must find out who it is and eliminate the brat before he or she grows into a true threat. _

_I have set my men in the Ministry the task of finding out who this child is, and when I know for sure, I will kill him and be done with it. I will rule Britain, and eventually the world. No upstart little bastard will deter me._

September 2, 1980

Cautiously eyeing the men idling about to his right, Severus made the long march across the stone floor. The master was troubled—huge-ass problem number one. He wanted to hear the prophecy again—potential problem number two. Lord Voldemort was no fool, he surely had the prophecy memorized, so why had he called Severus here to 'recite' it for them?

_Perhaps he fancies my suave baritone voice_, came unbidden to his mind, and in spite of himself he let out a barked guffaw, which he covered by pitching into a fit of coughing. Dropping to his knees, he murmured, "Forgive me, my lord." He shuffled forward to kiss Voldemort's robes, then edged backward once more. "May I ask why you wish to hear it again, master?"

"Because I wish it," answered Voldemort in what was a surprisingly non-threatening tone. Snape had anticipated something a bit more…villainous, maniacal even, circumstances considered.

Drawing in a deep breath, he spouted, "'The one with the power to vanquish the dark lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.'" Only after he'd finished did he subversively muse that he should have utilized mystic, guttural speech for effect. And even as he thought it, he wondered what in bloody hell was wrong with his mind, pondering such a reckless, rash act. Not that he'd have dared _do_ it…

Fortunately for Snape, Voldemort wasn't paying him any attention, he was looking over his head at the three men clustered off to the side. "My Death Eaters, how do you interpret this?"

No one appeared anxious to put forth an opinion, let alone hazard a guess at a prophecy that could shape the future of their lives forever. Rookwood stared at an imaginary stain on the floor, lightly kicking the toe of his shoe against it. Yaxley glanced around the room as if hoping someone would magically materialize to elucidate the answers for him.

At the risk of misspeaking, a risk he was prepared to take if it elevated him above the dimwit level of his comrades, Lucius said smoothly, "It means precisely what you've already told us it means, my lord. There is a child born at the end of July to parents who have defied you; this child—forgive me, I'm only quoting—possesses the power to vanquish you."

"Very good, Lucius," replied Voldemort. "Now explain to me how this interpretation differs from the Smythe squib."

_Smythe squib?_ Severus furrowed his brow. That was a new one. He backed off gradually while Lucius spoke, until he was far enough away to stand up without fear of angering the dark lord.

"The Smythe boy was born July 12, not at the end of July," answered Lucius, feeling a sudden compulsion to defend himself. "But he was the only one _at all_ born in July, my lord, and you yourself ordered us to kill him."

Severus rocked on his heels, stunned. Had he just heard what he thought he did—Lucius had finally done the unconscionable and committed murder? Then a recent front page of the _Daily Prophet_ flashed through his mind: 'Smythe Family Obliterated by Death Eaters'. His stomach contracted into a tight ball.

Voldemort gave an indifferent shrug. "I thought it prudent to hedge my bets, as they say. I never seriously took the boy as the fulfillment of the prophecy, and as time goes on I continue to have a growing, unsettled feeling."

"Of course, my lord, with no magic the child couldn't have any power to defeat you," Lucius agreed, gritting his teeth in annoyance. This was exactly what he'd tried to tell Lord Voldemort when he commanded them to dispose of the squib to begin with!

The dark lord lowered his voice to downright ominous. "The prophecy says 'as the seventh month _dies_'. Not _died_. The prophecy was made in early July, the end of the month had yet to come. Your new task is to discover if any magical children were born on July 31 of this year."

It seemed the temperature in the room plummeted. The nauseated feeling Lucius had experienced at being ordered to kill Devon Smythe came rushing back in quadruplicate. Not only had the boy and his family been murdered for nothing, now the dark lord was concentrating on a _baby_, of all insane notions! If a squib of fourteen was helpless, how much more so was a child only a few weeks younger than his own tiny son?

"As you wish, my lord," Lucius uttered, bowing.

Voldemort pointed at Rookwood and Yaxley. "This is your assignment as well. Find the names and any information available about them."

"Yes, my lord," they answered together.

"You may go."

The three of them trooped out as Snape held back, not sure he'd been dismissed. In yet another show of obvious madness, he ventured to ask, "My lord, do you truly believe an infant is capable of vanquishing you?"

His answer came in the form of a high cackle, then Voldemort said with disdain, "Of course not! But the child will grow up to be a thorn in my side. Better to pluck him out and be done with it." He made a shooing gesture with his hand. "Leave me now, I have thinking to do."

Here the vision ended, but Severus wasn't finished. He'd been there, he recalled all too well the horror of believing his best friend had sunk to the level of a murderer, and the disgust that a helpless infant was now the target of the madman in charge. His mind wandered to his own memory of that night.

_Homicidal reflections take no holidays__, thought Severus as he bowed. When he exited the castle, he noticed Lucius a short distance away, bending over as if he were—and then a stream of vomit came hurtling from his mouth. Snape averted his face. He waited to approach until the man was through retching and had straightened up in embarrassment._

_ "Are you alright?" Severus asked._

_ Lucius nodded as he wiped a sleeve across his mouth. That action alone told Snape he most certainly was __not__ alright, because a Malfoy would never behave in such an uncouth manner without grave reason. Lucius' eyes were glassy from watering; he spit into the grass again._

_ "Lucius, I have to ask. Did you kill that Smythe family?"_

_ There was a moment's pause. "No. Rookwood and Yaxley did, but I was there." He looked like he wanted to scream with frustration. "It was all for nothing, and now we'll have to kill a baby. A __baby__, Severus!"_

_ "Maybe there won't be any born on July 31," offered his friend._

_ "There will be, I know there will, I can feel it. If this prophesied child could destroy everything we've worked for all these years, it's probably best to be rid of him, but—he's a __baby__!" he reiterated, his voice raising to an unhealthy volume. "Younger than Draco! There is a line you just don't cross…"_

_There are no lines for Death Eaters__, Severus thought dejectedly as he regarded his friend. What was there to say? If Lucius was ordered to murder an infant, he'd do so or be murdered himself. Yes, it was nasty business, but who's to say this kid wouldn't grow up to be a pain in the arse for them all? Evidently this war would go on until the one capable of conquering the dark lord was himself conquered. It shamed him to think it, but maybe it was better to kill him now, get this war over with. In the long run, wasn't that for the best?_

_He gave an encouraging grin that came off looking sickly. "Maybe Rookwood or Yaxley will be given that mission."_

_ "Maybe." Lucius didn't look in the least convinced. "I feel like shite, I should go home." Without even saying goodbye he disapparated_.

Snape shut the diary and sat quietly, reflecting. He had been so relieved to hear Lucius hadn't killed the Smythe family, and now, with two tiny boys of his own who were roughly the same age as Draco had been at that time, he fully understood Lucius' reaction. Malfoy had just become a father, he couldn't help but compare his own newborn son to the one targeted for death. Whether it would put a swift end to the war and save countless lives was not the question, it was purely a matter of sensibilities.

That child had been Harry Potter, and he'd been right—the kid had grown up to be a pain in the arse. On the other hand, he'd got rid of Voldemort, so all in all it was a fair trade off.

He turned his head at the sound of a sharp crack like a cork pulled from a champagne bottle. There stood Winky in her frilly pink skirt and sweater, smiling broadly. "You calls for Winky, Master Headmaster. Winky comes right on time."

Severus glanced at the clock on the wall. Could elves tell time? She was a good half hour earlier than he'd requested. No matter. "I'd like you to come with me to Prince Manor, Winky."

The elf's forehead wrinkled, attesting to her labored ruminations. "Why, Master Headmaster?"

"You'll see." As usual he maintained a blank façade, giving away nothing, though his stomach heaved giddily. He felt oddly like Scrooge in _A Christmas Carol_, waiting somberly for his clerk to arrive, letting him become anxious, while plotting inwardly to raise the clerk's salary. He guided the elf to the floo, took a pinch of floo powder from the brass vase that always reminded him of a cremation urn, and in a flash of green fire they were in the Snape living room. "Aline, we're here!"

In the distance he heard the sound of crying babies, and suddenly his wife rushed in with a bawling infant in each arm, tears streaming down her face as well. "I can't make them stop," she sobbed, even as Severus plucked the nearer child from her and put his arm about her waist. "I don't know what's wrong. When I get one almost quiet, the other starts up."

"Shhh," he soothed, whether to Aline or the tyke was unclear. Holding her tight and bobbing Aidan up and down, he said gently, "It's alright."

"Winky can helps," said Winky, extending her arms up to Aline. "I is good at making babies happy."

Aline relinquished Adriel to the elf, who immediately checked his nappy, felt his forehead for fever, and then began to rock him very slowly in her spindly arms, singing a tune in a language the humans were not acquainted with. The tot, enthralled by her grotesquely large head, her overall strange appearance, and squeakish voice, calmed almost instantly, his eyes round with interest.

"That's astounding," Aline whispered. She looked at Aidan, whose gaze was also locked on the elf, his mouth hanging open in fascination.

"Perhaps they were bored," said Severus. He winked at Aline. "Winky, I think this is the perfect time to ask you if you'd like to live here and be our family house elf. We understand if you'd like to think it over."

"Family house elf? Snape family?" Winky uttered, not quite sure she believed her enormous pointy ears. Her squeaky voice rose in volume with each subsequent word. "You wants I to be your elf? For real?"

"Yes, we'd like that very much, if it's what you want," Aline confirmed.

For a long moment the elf gaped back and forth between the adult humans, then all at once burst into rapturous wails. Tears freely washed down her cheeks. Within seconds, both boys had commenced to screaming at the top of their lungs, making a cacophonous riot.

"Master Snape, Mistress Snape, you makes Winky so happy!" She threw herself at their legs, rubbing her head on them while rocking Adriel again. "Winky bes the best elf ever! I helps you with young masters and cooks and cleans—I so happy!" She kissed their legs over and over, then proceeded to kiss the baby on the cheek as she cooed, "Master…"

"Adriel," supplied Aline.

"Master Adriel, Winky is here." She looked up adoringly at Severus and Aline smiling down at her. Her family. Her real, true family. She couldn't wait to get out of these awful, shameful clothes and into a proper pillowcase or tea towel.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Do you mind if I snap a few pictures before we begin?"

Already Theo had his heavy, cumbersome camera leveled at Charlie, who shrugged one shoulder and shook his head as if it didn't matter one way or another to him. Theo studied his living room briefly, gauging the best backdrops and lighting, and went to work doing what he'd grown to love, what he excelled at.

"Let your hair down," he said after taking a few photos. "That glossy red hair against the muscled chest will make a great shot. You're a good looking bloke."

Charlie started to comply at the first command, but hesitated as Theo went on, his hand frozen in place, holding onto the band that had partly loosened. "Um…Theo, I'm not into that."

"Into what?" Theo peered over his camera, puzzled. All he'd asked him to do was take the strap from his hair, not do a belly dance.

"I mean, you're fit and all, but…I like women," Charlie murmured self-consciously.

Theo felt the blood rushing to his face in a warm rush of intense heat that reached the very roots of his hair. He was beginning to understand what Blaise meant when he said his cousin was sometimes clueless and naïve! "No! I didn't intend it like _that_! I like girls, too—I have a girlfriend." Merlin, now he sounded like he was protesting too much. Still blushing furiously, he tried to explain. "I've been doing this for a few years now. I've got used to telling people what makes an eye-catching shot for the public—in your case, the ladies. They love strong, handsome men…and I will shut up now." If there'd been a hole to crawl in, he'd be there.

Chuckling softly, Charlie dragged the leather strap free of his ponytail. If Theo was hitting on him, he was pretty bad at it, and he seemed genuinely embarrassed at the miscommunication. "Go ahead, take your pictures."

"I've already interviewed Draco for the article," Theo said as he snapped one photo after another. He didn't think it relevant or necessary to mention that this was his very first story as a journalist, and he'd only been chosen for it because the Malfoys refused to permit anyone else in to see their son. Sure, as a camera man he was always in demand, but thus far no one had seen fit to give him a chance at an actual story. "People are fascinated by dragons, especially when murder and intrigue are involved."

Theo set the camera down, summoned his pad and quill, and sat on a stool facing Charlie. "Why don't you tell me in your own words what happened that day, what you saw, what you thought? I'll ask any questions I have when you're finished."

Charlie leaned back in his chair till the front legs lifted up off the floor, and he rocked the chair to and fro, gazing at the ceiling as he spoke. "I had gone to train Omen, the black dragon—over there, they consider the black ones bad luck or something, hence the name. His pen was open and he was missing, and at first I thought someone was riding him, which would be very foolish. I smelled an awful odor and turned around; that's when I saw the charred body…"

Twenty minutes later, there was a sharp rap on the door, which opened before Theo had time to respond. In walked Blaise Zabini. "Oi, sorry! I thought you'd be done."

"Just about," answered Theo. He motioned toward the intruder. "Charlie, this is my cousin Blaise. He thinks my house is his."

The two shook hands, and Blaise slapped Charlie heartily on the back while stating, "I can't even imagine working with dragons. It must be riveting."

"It has its moments," Charlie answered pleasantly.

"Well, don't let me interrupt. I'll be on my way." Blaise headed back through the door, calling over his shoulder, "Talk to you later, Theo."

"Is he always so flaky?" asked Charlie with a grin.

Theo grinned back. "He has his moments."

Outside, Blaise sauntered off Theo's porch and disapparated. He reappeared in Knockturn Alley and strolled along whistling to himself as he examined the long red hair in his hand. If he recalled correctly, there was an apothecary shop nearby where he could purchase a nice Polyjuice potion. "Phase one in progress," he murmured, sliding the hair into his pocket.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

On the floor of his bedroom, Draco sat cross-legged opposite his baby sister, holding a medium-sized stuffed green dragon in his hand. He'd purposely chosen this one because it resembled Dragomir, floppy ears, stumpy legs, and all. The dragon pranced in circles over Khala's body as she giggled.

"And the dragon's name was Dragomir, a fearsome force of nature capable of setting bushes on fire and—"

"Draco, look at me!" Ladon squealed. He'd grown weary of watching his little sister get all the attention, and had begun running in rings around the two on the floor, chasing the miniature metal dragon Draco had gifted him as it buzzed about their heads.

"I see you, Brax," Draco answered, feeling a wee bit sad and disappointed. While he'd been in Bulgaria, Ladon had learned to say his name properly…and the kids had grown so much. He wasn't quite sure why it bothered him—yes, he was. He was missing them grow up, and it wasn't a good sensation. He held out an arm, and Ladon jumped right in for a hug.

"Day-co," Khala cooed, pounding her teeny fist on the stuffed animal.

"No, I'm Draco," he laughed, pointing a finger at himself.

Khala obligingly smacked her palm on his leg. "Day-co."

The young man smiled as he gazed dotingly at his sister. Certainly she was a genius—she was a Malfoy, after all, and the best sister in the world. And to think, he'd been upset upon learning Mother was pregnant with her. Had he really been as much a spoiled prat as he remembered?

"The dragon's name is Dragomir," he repeated, pronouncing it in the Bulgarian fashion.

"Dah-go-meed," Khala echoed, flashing him a smile showing all four of her front teeth.

Draco scooped her up in his free arm and clung to both of the children until they began to struggle for liberty. "I love you both so much."

"Draco?" The witch's voice came from the doorway.

He whipped his head around, stunned. "Astoria. Hi." He let Ladon loose and got up with Khala in his arm, gawking over his shoulder and chewing on his lapel.

"Tori! 'Member me?" Ladon scampered to her and collided with her legs, making her wince.

"Hi, Ladon. Of course I remember you." She picked him up to give him a good squeeze, and he crushed her head against him. Tori looked past him to Draco. "Your mum said it was alright if I visit for a few minutes."

"Okay," he said, not knowing what else to say. _You broke my heart and made me look like a fool?_ Not exactly a pleasant conversation starter.

"Draco gave me," Ladon broke in, pointing to the metal dragon flying around Astoria's knees. He leaned over so far trying to reach it that the girl had to put him down before he fell headlong.

"It's lovely. He's a good brother." She straightened up self-consciously. "I've missed you, Draco."

The young man started to speak, reconsidered, and stopped. On his second attempt, he said, "I saw you in Sofia."

"You were there? Why didn't—you should've—" She broke off with a sigh. Draco wouldn't have gone alone, now would he? He'd probably been with that woman, the one the murder revolved around, the one who'd almost got Draco killed!

"What are we doing, Tori?" asked Draco quietly, ignoring Khala's busy hands fluffing his hair as she laughed.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to play games. If you were curious about my health, you could have asked my mother how I am, but instead you came up yourself. Why?" Steely grey eyes pinioned her to the spot.

"Why do you think?" she retorted, her cheeks turning pink.

"I want you to tell me."

Pink became red, and the blush spread over her face. "Because I've been worried sick over you, and afraid for you. The paper said you'd been accused of murder and had run off with that hussy—"

"You have no right to call her that," he interrupted, his tone cold. "You don't even know her."

"Is it true? Were you carrying on an affair with her?"

"No. And even if I was, it wouldn't be your business since you jilted me. I'm free to do as I like." Several seconds passed as he drew in deep breaths through his nose, forcing himself not to say the terrible, hurtful things he'd dreamed of saying to her when at last they should meet again. "Thank you for coming by." It sounded ominously close to a dismissal.

Tori's violet eyes registered a wounded look that made him cringe inside. "I never stopped loving you," she said, barely above a whisper.

"Does that make everything else go away?" he asked softly, easing backward to sit on the edge of the bed, with Khala tugging joyfully at his locks, and poking her fingers at his eyes and nose. He gently pulled his sister's hand away. "You can't just walk out of my life, then waltz back in. You can't."

"What do I have to do?" she pleaded.

Draco shrugged helplessly. "I wish I knew. I plan on going back to Bulgaria, and I know you don't like that. You want me to propose, but you're not ready for marriage…neither am I."

Hesitantly, almost fearfully, she ventured, "Do you love me?"

He looked up at her, at those sorrowful eyes he adored, and he couldn't lie. A slew of visions, memories of holding her, kissing her, snogging her silly ran through his mind in quick succession. He'd never felt with anyone how he felt with her. As much as it would probably make it easier in the long run to be done with the whole relationship, he just couldn't lie. At this point, he wasn't sure he wanted to. He nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Then we can work it out," she answered, not moving toward him despite the overwhelming desire to do so. "I know I was bossy and bratty, and I'm sorry. I should have been thinking of your future, not just my own, but we can start over, can't we?"

"I need to think." The death knell sentence. Rushing right back into the same situation definitely seemed like a bad idea, yet he loved her. She admitted she was wrong, and if she was willing to change, there was hope, right? "I need time to think," he repeated.

"I should go. Take care of yourself." Astoria backed out the door, waved to him, and fled down the hall before the weeping overtook her.

Ladon raced to the doorway and peered down the hall at the retreating figure. "Bye-bye, Tori!" He ambled to his brother and looked up at him. "Why Tori cry?"

Draco smiled wanly. "She's sad."

"Draco sad?" Ladon petted his brother's leg in empathy.

The elder wizard lifted the boy onto his lap, where Khala still stood on one of his legs, braced by his arm. Her grey Malfoy eyes lit up at the prospect of two blond heads to toy with. "Yeah, Draco's kind of sad," he confessed as he held the children in another fierce embrace. "But I'm so glad to be with you both. Let's go to the playroom where you have loads of stuff to do."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

George bid Regulus a good evening, then proceeded to double check the store to make sure no urchins had stowed away in a bin of pygmy puffs or were snarfing down the joke candy meant for serious situations like exam day, or impressing your mates. Satisfied that everyone had gone, he fished the key from his pocket and headed to the door. It swung open a split second before he got there, and Charlie walked in. He glanced at the portrait of Fred prominently displayed in the foyer and raised a chin in greeting.

"What brings you here, bro?" asked George.

"I was doing some shopping, thought I'd drop in."

George sized him up and smirked. Likely he'd come for complimentary samples of some of the latest materials! "I don't see any purchases."

"Didn't find anything I liked," replied the other, smirking in return. "Which brings to mind a question: what's up with you and Jacinta Snape Mulciber?"

Startled, George missed the opportunity to make a lewd comeback; instead he stared at his brother. "That came out of nowhere."

"I heard you fancy her," persisted Charlie. "What're you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything _yet_," George retorted, snickering. "Give me some time and opportunity—"

"She's seeing that Nott fellow," Charlie interrupted.

"_Not_ for long," said George, nearly doubled over at his own joke. "Get it?"

Behind him, Fred laughed in his portrait. "Brilliant one, George."

Charlie appeared unimpressed. He crossed his arms, showing off his buff biceps. "I'm trying to be nice and advise you as a brother—"

"I don't recall asking for advice," the younger redhead shot back, smiling in a way that made Charlie want to whack him in the head.

"Well, I'm gonna give it anyway!" snarled Charlie, glaring at his brother. "Let me break this down for you: Nott is the son of Professor Snape's old friend—"

"Who is currently dead and no longer a threat."

"Would you stop interrupting?" Charlie barked.

"That wasn't me, it was Fred!" George cried, looking offended. Fred smiled brightly and waggled his fingers at the older wizard.

Charlie narrowed his eyes. "_Anyway_, Jack Mulciber was good friends with the dead man, and he wants his daughter to marry Nott. As far as I can tell, Snape agrees. Do you honestly want to get mixed up in that?"

George shrugged, the epitome of unconcern. "It's not so much I _want_ to as I _have_ to."

"What?"

"It's a challenge, Charlie. Do we have to spell everything out for you?" said Fred. "George here, being the handsome stud he is, would have no trouble finding another woman, but this one is different. Ergo, she must be pursued."

George high-fived the portrait. "Thank you, Fred, you summed that up nicely."

"I did, didn't I?" Fred concurred, smiling. He reached an arm back to pat himself on the shoulder.

"Different how?" asked Charlie. He didn't deign to acknowledge their mutual admiration.

"She's not falling all over him—"

"—or lavishing me with pity—"

"—and she's got a delicious strong-willed streak—"

"—that beckons me like a siren," finished George. He found it amusing to watch Charlie's head swiveling back and forth as the twins finished each other's thoughts. "I can't help myself."

It looked for all the world like Charlie wanted to smack his brother hard enough to knock him into next week. His arms twitched, but remained firmly across his chest. Through tightened jaw he uttered, "I think you'd better try, because if Jacinta ends up getting hurt, I'm afraid _you'll_ end up hurt, and I'm not talking emotionally. Do I need to remind you that Snape cut off your ear? And that was an accident—imagine what he'd do on purpose."

George let out a cross between a raspberry and an exasperated puff of air. "Turns out Snape was on our side, or didn't you get the memo?"

Charlie threw up his hands and stepped back, noting that George also took a few paces back as if anticipating a blow to the head. "Fine. I'll not harass you. I won't even mention it again. Just think about what I said."

"Yeah, will do," George said, shaking his head and giving an exaggerated eye roll. "You going to the Burrow?"

"Not yet, I've got something to do." Charlie flung open the door and left, disapparating out of Diagon Alley.

He apparated to the back garden of the Zabini home, where a glass top table and several chairs set on the cobblestoned patio. On the table was a pitcher of beer and two glasses. He settled into one of the lounge chairs to wait, and transfigured his clothing back to their original robes. Soon enough this nasty potion would wear off and he'd be himself again; till then, he may as well have a drink.

Blaise poured himself a glass of beer and toasted the empty air. "Phase one complete."


	39. Poke the Dragon

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 39 (Poke the Dragon)

**October 11, 2000**

Theo loved being a photographer, he truly did. That notwithstanding, the reporters got all the glory and recognition, and hence he'd been pestering the editor for months to let him do a story, to no avail. Luck came his way in the misfortune of others. Due to the fact that the Malfoys refused to allow entry to anyone besides a friend or family member, the scoop concerning Draco and Charlie had fallen into his lap by default. No matter, he wasn't going to complain about it! He intended to do his best, to compose a brilliant piece that would launch his career as a journalist as well as a photographer.

He'd hoped to spend the evening organizing his notes, but as fate would have it, he got sidetracked less than an hour after Charlie left. A fire call from Blaise, taunting him with a delicious commentary, proved too much to pass up. Although his cousin tended to theatrics, and Theo habitually took his histrionics with a grain of salt, he had to say he was intrigued. He floo'd to the Zabini home and found his relative chugging a beer on the back patio. He'd obviously had a few already.

Blaise insisted on pouring a pint into Theo before telling him the elusive details of his earlier activity. He then sprang the entire story of his covert theft of Charlie's hair, the Polyjuice potion, and his meeting with George at the joke shop.

Theo stared at his cousin as if the boy had grown a third eye, studying him, looking for the telltale smirk that meant he was messing with his head. No smirk…well, not _that_ smirk. "You did _what_?"

"Oh, come on. You've been dragging arse where Weasley is concerned, afraid to dive in. Seriously, if you didn't want my help, you wouldn't have told me your problems," Blaise answered. He downed another several swallows of beer.

"Just for clarification purposes, how is this helpful?"

"I'm glad you asked," said Blaise, smiling. "If George ever discovers that 'Charlie'," he drew quotes in the air with his fingers, "was a fake, he'll assume it was you and attack you."

Theo clunked his glass onto the table. "Still failing to see the silver lining, Blaise!"

"Jacinta would see him as a brute, making _you_ look better. And of course, if he never finds out, he'll think his brother was counseling him, and maybe he'll take it to heart." He snorted, blowing a trickle of alcohol out his nose, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. "Not likely, but possible."

"And if _Charlie_ finds out and thinks it was me?" asked Theo.

"Ah…well, I can't think of everything, can I?" Blaise replied. He poured himself another glass of beer, though Theo refused a refill. "Besides, I gathered some very interesting information, which sadly Jacinta would not believe if I told her. She doesn't like me much."

"You don't exactly exude friendliness around her. In fact, I recall more than once you harping about her not being pureblood, but masquerading as one for years," Theo said, frowning. "What did you hear?"

"I've come to terms with her blood status," Blaise argued defensively. "I hardly ever slip up anymore—"

"Blaise!"

"Weasley told his 'brother' he's only after Jacinta because she's 'different'—basically, she's a conquest."

Silence. Stunned, furious silence. Theo snarled, "What the f—k? Are you jerkin' me?"

Blaise looked over the glass perched at his lips. "You know me better than that. I'm very discerning where girls are concerned, but I don't go around trying to hurt them. Stealing another bloke's girl for the fun of it…that's just wrong."

Theo was out of his chair, his body trembling with ire. It was one thing for a man to go after a woman he had feelings for, another to pursue a woman who was taken, regardless of his feelings…but at least Theo could understand it. To do so for the thrill of it, not caring who he wounded in the process…Theo could not, would not, abide it. Were it only his own heart at stake, he'd be tempted to play it down as he'd done so far, but Jacinta's emotions were on the line here. If that bastard thought he could waltz in, sweep her off her feet, and then crush her, he had another thing coming. Gone were the toyed-with notions of pranking or humiliating Weasley to get him to back off; now he wanted blood. "I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch."

In a flash Blaise was on his feet, unsteadily so. He took hold of his cousin to drag him back into his chair. "No, you're not."

Theo shook him violently off. "You tell me this and expect me to do nothing? Are you daft?"

"No, I'm drunk, but that's not the point," said Blaise, giving Theo a hard push that knocked him into the chair. "We'll get rid of him, only not by murder. You think Jacinta wants to see you rot in prison?"

"He's not gonna hurt her!"

"That's why we're here." Blaise stood in front of Theo, blocking his escape. "We could tell Snape or Mulciber—either of them would kick George's arse in a duel."

"So could I," Theo objected.

"What do you not get? You can't be the bad guy here!" Blaise took a deep breath. "We need a plan—and not one of your wussy ones."

"They're not wussy," Theo snapped. Yes, they were. Here George was planning to seduce Jacinta for the fun of it, and all Theo had intended was a silly prank. Blaise was right. Confronting Weasley directly would inevitably cause more problems; using Snape or Mulciber was unfair to them, possibly getting them into trouble if they harmed the jerk. And Jacinta…if she found out why her dad or papa was in trouble, she'd be humiliated.

Theo groaned and threw himself against the back of the chair. While Blaise had a flair for schemes, he also tended to go over the top into ridiculousness, and he wasn't scrupulous about the details. This plan, such as it was, had already been set into motion by Blaise's impersonation and revelation; there was no going back. Theo thought it prudent to be the one steering the new plot along to make sure it didn't backfire. Too much was riding on this to fail.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**September 10, 1980**

Fiendish. Eager. Hunted. Salacious. Any and all of the aforementioned could describe the leer gracing Voldemort's gaunt white face as he leaned forward on his throne at the arrival of his minions. Before they'd even properly prostrated themselves, he uttered, "Well? Have you determined if any unfortunate child has been born on July 31st?"

Lucius cocked his head uncomfortably, and for lack of knowing what else to do, slid to his knees, eyes on the ground. He hated it when the routine got interrupted—not because he enjoyed the groveling by any stretch of the imagination, but disruption rarely proved a good thing. "No, my lord. We're still working on it. For sheer self-preservation we're relegated to working at night when other Ministry officials have left off."

He cast a sidelong glance at Yaxley and Rookwood to his left, both of whom found it convenient to let him be the spokesman and, if the situation warranted it, designated scapegoat. They meekly knelt in front of the dark lord, mouths clamped shut.

"Then why have you dared return to me?" shrieked Voldemort, rising to his feet and causing the three men to cringe.

"Because you summoned us," Lucius stated in a whisper. He winced and braced for the curse that was certain to follow.

"Oh, so I did." Voldemort settled himself back on his throne and wiggled his rear into a comfy position. For a long moment no one said a word, the Death Eaters praying quietly for reprieve. Finally Voldemort said, "Well, no point in wasting this time. We're due for another training session."

Lucius whipped his head up with an incredulous expression akin to asking if he'd heard correctly. Not only was the dark lord admitting to a mistake, he wasn't even angry or vindictive. That was just too weird. Lucius' expression turned into a grimace; perhaps the 'training session' involved the punishment he'd hoped to avoid. _That_ sounded more like the norm.

"I'll summon your comrades," Voldemort went on, amused by Malfoy's overt anxiety. "Meet me outside in the field."

"Yes, master," and "Yes, my lord," came from the three Death Eaters, hurriedly rising to make a hasty departure before he changed his mind. Yaxley and Rookwood squeezed out past the figure coming in, who deftly blocked Lucius' way.

"Ugh—you, blondie," moaned Bella, rolling her dark orbs skyward. "Get your arse out of my way."

"Bite me," Lucius muttered, then sneered, "On second thought, don't. You've probably got any number of contagious diseases, not to mention your naturally deadly venom." Suddenly realizing that this was the first time in a good long while that he'd seen the mini-troll _coming in_ rather than wrapped like a Christmas ribbon around the dark lord, he quipped, "Your tiny little mind figured out how to get out the door. Good for you!"

The sound of her shriek reverberated in the room behind him as he bolted toward the training field, to meet Severus waiting with several others in a circle forming with arriving Death Eaters.

"Nothing like the irritating, grating bleat of our dear Bellatrix," Snape remarked, poker faced. "I may be compelled to attempt an antidote for the eardrum scarring it produces."

"If we could bottle the sound of her warbling screech, we could use it as a war cry—bloody hell, wage wars with it. Wouldn't even need Death Eaters," Lucius laughed. When Severus didn't even crack a smile, Lucius turned slightly and looked over his shoulder, where Voldemort and Bella stood in close proximity to him. Only now did the Death Eaters begin prostrating themselves as the wench scowled murderously. _Shit_.

Bella took her place beside him, allowing a lazy smile to spread over her lovely features. "You're mine, blondie. You and the halfbreed both."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Voldemort hadn't been kidding about training. As he'd done in the past, he divided his followers into pairs, most typically an older mentor and a younger member; the pairs practiced Dark spells, including new curses the master had taught them, for an hour or so before the real fun began—the much-anticipated duels…much anticipated by a select few, that is, and dreaded by the rest.

"This evening our display will vary a bit," announced Voldemort glibly, much like a game show host explaining the rules to his contestants, and sounding every bit as slick as said host. "The first two up will duel, and the winner will choose his—or her," he added, nodding to a smirking Bellatrix, "next opponent." He regarded the faces turned to him, waiting—some patiently, others nervously, others dispassionately. "Evan Rosier and Walden Macnair."

The two wizards strode forward onto the runway-like level section of the field reserved for mock combat, six or seven meters separating them, and faced each other. They made the requisite bow and simultaneously glanced at the master: until he gave the word to start the tournament, there would be no fighting.

"No deadly curses, including but not limited to the _a.k_.," Voldemort rattled off. If it weren't for the sub-par intellectual capacity of a few of his minions, he wouldn't bother with this qualification each time; he simply preferred not to lose any followers if it weren't necessary. No point in admonishing them to fight fairly, for that was just stupid. As he'd heard growing up in the orphanage, there was no such thing as a fair fight; one person was invariably more gifted, stronger, or more clever than the other. "Let the games begin."

He levitated himself into the air from where he could watch the proceedings with minimal need to deflect stray curses…and also, he just liked being up there. Rosier and Macnair, only a few years apart, were comparably matched despite the fact that Rosier's father had been a Death Eater for decades and had not shirked his duty in training his son. Lord Voldemort was not in the least surprised when Macnair, less than a minute into the fray, sent a slicing curse horizontally at his opponent, and the other man sprang upward to avoid it. Nonetheless, he wasn't quick enough, and a vicious gash opened on his ankle. He fell to the ground screaming more from fear than pain.

"Halt!" Voldemort called. It wasn't that he minded if his men played with their prey, only that such action might cost the life of his supporter. He didn't have enough Death Eaters for them to be expendable. "Severus, tend to him."

Snape immediately broke ranks to do as ordered. A few minutes of kneeling beside him, wand out, chanting healing countercurses had the young man back on his feet. Evan sheepishly returned to the huddle of spectators, flicking furtive glances apprehensively at his father.

"What the bloody hell was that?" demanded the elder Rosier in a hiss. "I taught you better, and you made me look like a fool."

"Sorry, Dad," Evan murmured, though the presence of all the listeners emboldened him to add defiantly, "It wasn't about you."

"Yeah, it was about me and my superior skills," Macnair interrupted, gloating openly and—although not his purpose—saving Evan from a good whack in the mouth for insolence. "I choose Terrel Rosier."

The older wizard shoved aside his son and Jugson to stomp over to the dueling field, eyes flaming with malice, his wand clenched between his fingers like an extension of his hand. "Don't f—k with me or my family, boy," he growled at Macnair before taking his place.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir," Macnair sneered back, openly sarcastic. "You're not my type."

They bowed, and it was on. Purple, red, and blue curses hurtled from Rosier; Macnair deflected and dodged, unable to get in a shot of his own. At a green spell speeding his way, he showed an amazing agility heretofore not displayed, and dived into a shoulder roll to land on one knee, positioning him for firing. He got off two strong hexes which his adversary contemptuously knocked aside, sending one of them zipping directly into the thronged audience, who parted wildly and dropped to the ground for cover. Rosier's next spell, to Macnair's consternation, wasn't aimed at him, but in a wide arc overheard. Before he realized what was happening, the atmosphere around him grew thin and he found himself gasping for breath. An _expelliarmus_ effectively ended the duel.

Rosier approached him leisurely, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Enjoying yourself, Macnair?" His wand lifted slightly, just a twitch, and the breath rushed into the younger wizard's lungs, though relief was hardly the word to describe the sensation. Immediately Rosier lifted Macnair in the air, head height, and slammed him into the dirt. Once, twice, thrice, as Macnair howled in pain.

"Enough," said Voldemort. Just like that, it was over.

Macnair took his wand from Rosier's outstretched hand and crawled off the field, properly chastened. As per the rules, Rosier chose a new opponent, or rather a series of them, for his ire had yet to subside, and he wielded it ferociously. Travers, Yaxley, Rookwood, and Rowle suffered a variety of embarrassing defeats, and wrongly thinking himself nigh invincible, he did the unthinkable: he selected Bellatrix. A collective groan rang through the group, nearly drowning out her gleeful exclamation.

As predicted by everyone except Rosier, Bella trounced him within two minutes and left him weeping on the ground after her final Cruciatus. She faced the remaining Death Eaters, a wolf-like smile gracing her lips as her eyes darted among her comrades, many of whom made it a point to try blending into the background, even to appear invisible altogether. Her smile widened as she set her sights on her victim. "Lucius."

"Bitch," he muttered under his breath. He half-expected to see dog fangs in place of her teeth in her grinning snout. Taking out his wand, he made the lonely walk to the designated area. To his credit, he was able to deflect the majority of Bella's curses, and even to return several of his own before she flattened him with a hex that made him feel like his chest had been crushed by a giant's boot.

Bellatrix leaned over the panting wizard, smirking infuriatingly. "It only hurts for a few hours, blondie. If you tell me I have a sweet, soothing voice, I won't squeeze your bits with a new curse Rabastan showed me. Say it nice and loud for our friends." Her wand hovered over his genitals.

"You're insane," he spat at her, even as one hand crept downward for extra protection, which naturally provided no protection at all against a curse.

"I guess you don't need them anymore now that you've got an heir." The wand twitched. "Don't you think Cissy might miss them?"

Lucius grimaced. The witch was indeed mad enough to do it. It was an unwinnable situation, and to prolong it only made it that much worse. Disgraced and disheveled in front of his peers, he ground out through clenched jaw, "Your voice is like the tinkling of chimes in a summer breeze."

"Fair enough." She stood upright, Lucius all but forgotten, already surveying the crowd like a hunting lioness sizing up the herd. "Snape."

Lucius rose to his feet, swept his hair back off his face, and straightened his robes to a semblance of dignity before leaving the field. The only good thing he noted was that none of the other men were laughing; not even Rodolphus could escape her wrath, and they all understood how easily they might be next in this position.

Hearing his name, Severus inhaled sharply, staring straight ahead. He'd known it was coming…didn't make it any more pleasant or desirable. He'd never beat Bella in a duel, no one here had except the master himself. Damn it, he hated her! He loathed her with a loathing reserved for the likes of Potter and Black…well, maybe not quite that much, but close.

Shoulders hunched slightly, Severus stalked into the combat arena, wand clutched in his fingers, brushing his leg as he walked. A barely discernable bob of his head constituted his bow.

"Ca you see through those greasy curtains around your face, halfblood?" she taunted, enjoying this immensely more than a rational person could lay claim to.

"Well enough to see that my foe is…oh, how do I phrase this politely…bat shit crazy," he drawled, letting loose a trademark Slytherin sneer.

"Oh!" Bella flung a yellow curse that Snape turned aside with a flick of his wrist. One would swear she'd been stung by his disparaging comment, although seriously—remarks about her mental stability, or lack thereof, were such common fare that without doubt she'd become inured to them by now.

"Did I say _politely_?" Severus asked. "I meant _accurately_."

He tossed two curses in quick succession, which Bella easily deflected, and cast another hex so close on the heels of it that Severus barely leapt out of the way.

"Filthy little muggle spawn," she seethed, throwing a _stupefy_ that she didn't expect to connect. "You need to learn proper respect for your betters." A red hex, then a green one followed, like Christmas in September…if Christmas carried the ability to blast off an arm or cause one's head to blow up like a balloon.

"My betters?" he echoed, averting the spells with two lightning fast moves. "I do hope you aren't including yourself in that category. I shudder to think my superiors dress like two-bit streetwalkers and wield a wand like a beater's bat."

Unlike her previous battles, Bella ceased throwing curses in a machine gun-like approach. She circled slowly, eyeing the wizard who dared insult her openly and attempt to toy with her. Snape circled along with her, realizing perhaps too late that he'd poked the dragon a tad too hard. He couldn't help himself, she begged for it…or had he merely fallen into her snare?

"Your pitiful attempts to wound me are as futile as your pathetic hope of ever defeating me," she said calmly. Her wand twirled effortlessly between her fingers, looking far more menacing than any beater's bat.

"You think highly of yourself," he returned dispassionately, continuing to match her step for step. "I believe I can safely say, speaking for everyone here, that makes _one_ of us."

He didn't even see it coming. One second her wand was twirling in her hand, the next second—or maybe the _same_ second—it was firing a curse that struck him full in the chest. A choked gasp escaped, the only movement, for he seemed unable to move a muscle. He was certain she'd not used _immobulus_ or _petrificus totalus_…ah, yes, here came a creeping chill to confirm it was something new and dastardly.

"And that's what separates me from you—skill. That and blood purity, you scummy little vermin." Bella sauntered up to him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. An aura of triumph emanated from her. "Shall we continue? What is the fitting curse for a halfblood bastard who dares—"

"That will do, Bellatrix." Lord Voldemort sent a countercurse at Snape that released him from his paralysis, to the witch's great displeasure. "You are supposed to be dueling, not verbally sparring. Select another champion."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Sept. 10, 1980_

_ I held another training session today. Very satisfying. It is of the utmost importance that my Death Eaters remain sharp, vigilant. Bellatrix, my most loyal, outshone the competition at every turn. She possesses a powerful natural talent, combined with years of practice—both before and after my tutelage. She soaks up my lessons like a sponge, I can't teach her quickly enough. I've never seen anyone competent to defeat her, except myself of course. If only the rest could compare, the world would tremble._

The entry ended, to Snape's surprise. So short, yet comprising a vision encompassing two hours or more. He slipped the book into his desk and double locked the drawer with spells no one at Hogwarts would know. A light laugh sounded in the quiet room. In watching the scene through Voldemort's eyes, the way the dark lord concentrated on Bella's dueling performance, Severus had discerned something he'd not noticed before. When Bella blocked two of his spells and returned a hex in an extraordinarily fast manner, he'd assumed it was luck or super reflexes…no, it was a technique she'd learned at the elbow of the master. In fact, he could feel Voldemort's pride in her work as an extension of his own.

Snape closed his eyes, re-watching the event. Direct the tip of the wand in a very small circle, scarcely using the wrist; at the halfway point, block the incoming curse; continue the motion to complete the circle, and cast a spell. Done very rapidly, it was both simple and extremely economical in dueling, yet until today he'd never truly witnessed it. Unless one was near enough to perceive the action as a spectator (unlikely) or unless one paid rapt attention to her wrist during a duel (suicidal), it was close to impossible to detect.

He took out his wand to practice the motion a few times. Aline was going to love this! And to think, dear psychotic Bellatrix had taught him something useful. Wouldn't she be peeved if she knew? The thought made him smile contentedly. Oh, how he hated that bitch.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 15, 2000**

As nice as it was to visit the family, it felt good to be back among the dragons and their handlers. After a good night's sleep, Charlie had made it a point to speak to Borimetchka about the conversations he'd had with Draco, the most recent right before returning to Bulgaria. He'd been mulling the idea over in his mind for quite some time and, combined with Omen's attack and getaway, and Dragomir's help in finding Oksana, he had to concede Draco might be right. Adult dragons posed a lot of trouble and danger that theoretically could be eliminated.

"And so Draco suggested stealing eggs here and there to raise, the way you've been doing with Dragomir," Charlie concluded, looking over at the big man seated on the porch beside him.

Bori nodded slowly, stretching out his legs. "I think ees good idea. Babies like Dragomir learn to love the—" He hesitated to say 'owner', for can one truly own a dragon? They were sweet and gentle if treated right, but they had minds of their own, like children. "He loves me. Adult dragons, they vant be free. They haf families…ees much better to hatch a baby. The problem ees to get eggs."

Charlie smiled slyly. "I think we have a good shot at that. Once we find a nest, we can raid it, take an egg, and be gone in a couple of minutes. Now, I don't lay claim to talent like Viktor Krum, but I used to be a seeker, and I know several blokes who are quite handy on a broom…"

From inside the cabin, Oksana listened to the conversation at the open window as she watched Bori and Charlie. She hadn't been outside for days, not even to bask in that rare spot of sunshine at this time of year. Always in the back of her mind was the fear that if she left the cabin, something terrible would happen. It was irrational, she knew, but she couldn't help how she felt.

Behind her, a wet nose nuzzled her backside; she gasped and turned, then smiled and stretched out a hand to caress Dragomir's snout. "Thank you for being so sweet to me," she crooned in his ear.

The floppy ear lifted, along with his brow ridge. For the first few days after Oksana came back, he'd kept his distance from her—she hadn't used to be very nice to him, after all. But she seemed so sad, and when he approached her she'd petted him and spoken kindly to him. For two nights she'd even invited him to sleep with her in Bori's massive bed, an opportunity he jumped at. Bori _never_ let him sleep there! In short, she showered him with affection and attention, and being a young, impressionable dragon, he ate it up.

Dragomir nudged her in the side, backed up, and wagged his head at the doorway. Curious, Oksana peered that way, failing to see what he was gesturing at. The next thing she knew, the little dragon was trotting out of the room; she got up to follow. When he scuttled out the dragon-flap in the back door, she sighed, disappointed and not sure why. A moment later his head popped in again and he grunted at her.

"You want me to go out?" she asked.

It looked distinctly like he nodded.

Oksana took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and opened the door. A blast of cool air rushed in, but nothing bad happened. Dragomir nipped at her robes, tugging gently, and she smiled again. "Just a minute." Taking her cloak from the hook nearby, she threw it around her shoulders, placed her hand on the dragon's head, and walked out. That simple action alone gave her a sense of accomplishment.

Dragomir whinnied at her as he frolicked across the dirt toward the meadow Oksana used to spend a lot of time in. So, the creature wanted to take a stroll, huh? She forced herself down the steps; by the time she reached the dragon, she was laughing to herself from the joy of being free.

As Bori rounded the cabin, he halted in place, careful not to make a sound. A flicker of a smile lit his face. Oksana had come outside! And there was Dragomir, prodding her along and reveling in her attention. His heart swelled with tenderness for his little pet…and for the woman that he had no idea how to help. He wanted to reach out to her, but he didn't know how, and feared rejection or worse from her. After what Sashko had done, would she trust Bori? Maybe, just maybe Drago was helping to bridge the gap. At least she felt comfortable with him. God willing, soon Oksana would reach out to Bori for support, and he would give it without hesitation or condition.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

When the door to the animal clinic opened precisely at closing time, Jorab groaned inside. Not again! Lately it had been one thing after another, and if he missed one more date with Livonia, she was liable to dump him. The very thought made his heart pump furiously. Since the dinner with Bayly at Liv's house, their relationship had taken a nosedive and slowed to a crawl, though he was slowly winning her back. The gracious things the kid and his little wife had to say about their visit to his clinic had been helpful, Rab was quick to admit. He simply couldn't afford to be pissing around or less than attentive at this point.

"Oh, it's you," he said, exhaling in relief. "Lock the door."

Wendolph clicked the lock into place, then flipped the sign to 'Closed'. "Is Dr. Gissell still here?"

"No, he left. Where've you been, Dolph? This is the third time in the past few months that you just disappeared for hours." Rabby peered at his brother, waiting.

"You're keeping track?"

There was a tone in Dolph's voice that Rabby couldn't quite place. Annoyed? No. Surprised? No. It bothered him, not that his brother was sneaking off, but that he felt the need to be secretive about it. They'd never kept secrets from each other! Well, unless one counted their father's accidental killing, the molestation by Uncle Varden, and the subsequent murder of Uncle Varden, but those were _huge_…was this something huge? And if so, precedent suggested it necessarily had to be bad. Rabby swallowed tensely.

"Have you got into something…some trouble?" he ventured.

"No." Dolph headed for the back room to feed the animals as he always did before going home. Jorab stepped into his path, and Dolph stopped with a disgruntled growl. "Get out of the way."

Brows dipped in irritation and worry, Rab crossed his arms and shook his head. "You're not acting like yourself. What are you hiding from me?"

Dolph tilted his head and grinned menacingly. "Rabby, I'm twice as strong as you. I could make you move."

"Yeah, you could," agreed the younger of the two, remaining motionless. He'd always been slight compared to Dolph's sturdy frame, there was no arguing the truth of it. Nonetheless, thus far in all these years, Dolph hadn't used his superior strength to get his way. "Or you could tell me what I wanna know. Have you got a lady you're stealing out with?"

"No." Dolph debated briefly in his mind whether to shove the man aside. Really, he had no need for secrecy…it was the principle of the thing. And yet, Rabby wasn't just some bloke, nor even just a friend, and when it came right down to it, he didn't like the idea of hurting his brother either physically or emotionally. It seemed best to start at the beginning. "Do you remember that time you, me, Travers, and Macnair—"

"Marshal," Rab interrupted automatically.

"Marshal. That time we took out a busload of muggles?"

A shudder ran down Rabby's spine. Oh, God, what if Dolph had gone back to muggle hunting? He nodded numbly. "Eighteen of them. Why are you bringing this up?"

"And Voldemort commended us in front of everyone," Dolph went on, conscious of the shame and disgust in his brother's face. "We were so proud."

"It sickens me now," Rabby hissed. He couldn't even look at the other wizard. "All those things we used to do…" He shook his head again, unable to express in words what he was experiencing. Upon noticing his oddly silent brother, he asked, "Doesn't it bother you?"

More strained silence. "I don't know," admitted Dolph, turning his palms up and heaving a heavy breath. "I mean, I wouldn't do it _now_, but at that time, in those circumstances…we were lauded for barbarity, and to be honest, I liked that. I liked recognition for a job well done."

Rabby felt like his organs had frozen inside him. This couldn't be. How could Dolph have fooled him all this time, whenever they talked of the past? "Are you telling me you only pretended to agree with me about changing our ways? You aren't sorry at all?"

"I didn't say that." He sighed again. "Muggles are—well, they're muggles…but they don't deserve to be murdered because of it. And yet, if they all died, I wouldn't care."

"I don't even know who you are right now." Jorab uncrossed his arms and tried to get past his brother to the door.

Dolph grabbed hold of his arm and spun him back. "You wanted an explanation, and I'm giving it to you, so listen! I love you, Rabby. I love working with you—hell, I even kind of love those stupid animals. But you know me; I get bored easily, I need excitement."

"Now you're changing the subject." _Or, God forbid, going to tell me you've reverted to your former ways._

"No, I'm not. I've done a lot of thinking that brought me to where I am, and I want you to understand it." He let go of Rab's arm and walked across the room to sit heavily on the receptionist's desk. "Part of the reason—maybe most of the reason—I enjoyed being a Death Eater was the thrill, the stimulation…the rush. I don't get that anymore." He stared down at the floor so long Rab wondered if he planned to continue. "I'm not proud of torturing and murdering people, even muggles, and I—I _do_ regret the things I did. I'm not going to beat myself up for it, but I believe you're right when you say we have to make up for the evil we did. So, with that in mind, I've decided to become a firefighter."

A pin landing on a pillow would sound like an explosion right about now. Rabby's jaw hung slack as he stared at the other man. "I…um…I'm not following your logic."

"Really?" asked Dolph, surprised. It seemed pretty cut and dried to him. "There's excitement and danger, which I miss, and I'd be helping people—_muggle people_. Possibly even saving their lives! Isn't that what you want me to do?"

"Is that what you want to do?" shot back Jorab.

"Yes!" Dolph said emphatically, then paused for a moment to let it sink in. "Yes," he said again, nodding. "It really is."

"Then I suppose I'm happy for you," said Rabby, not entirely sure how he truly felt. "This is where you've been disappearing to?"

"Yeah." He gave a lopsided smile. "It's a long process. I saw an advertisement recruiting for the retained duty system."

"Which is?"

"Like a part-time firefighter, on call at specified hours. I'll keep my job here, so you won't need to find a replacement." It pleased him to note the smile forming on Rab's face. Not only was Dolph glad to continue working with his brother, the idea of living in a fire station wholetime with a bunch of muggles made him nauseous. "I'll be called for emergencies via a pocket alerter, and I've got to go to training sessions for a few hours each week. In the meantime, before I'm hired, I've got interviews and physical fitness tests, literacy tests, psychological testing…a lot of stuff. I'm trying to do it the muggle way, but I figure if I don't pass something, I can always _confund_ the examiner."

"Did you manage to pass the psychological?" Rabby teased, laughing.

Dolph chuckled. "Indeed. All I had to do was lie—or rather, make certain changes in my service under Lord Voldemort. It seems I was part of a cooperative team in which I took orders, led activities, solved problems, and engaged in a variety of stressful and high-risk tasks."

"Definitely sounds better than 'Death Eater' as a reference," agreed Rab, his mind still whirling. This was all so sudden for him; Dolph, on the other hand, had been working toward this goal for months. Nonetheless, it was a good thing, a very good thing, and while he wasn't wild about the notion of Dolph running into burning buildings—with or without a wand—he should be supportive. That's what brothers do. "I'm proud of you, Dolph. But I'm still glad you'll be working here most of the time."

"Yeah, me too." Dolph didn't specify which statement he was concurring with, perhaps because it was both. He gestured toward the door leading to the back room. "I've got to go feed the beasties."


	40. Enemy Mine

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 40 (Enemy Mine)

_Sept. 25, 1980_

_ As a rule, I don't spend time watching the ocean. The wind is cold; over the years, I feel a decreased resistance to it. The spray is even worse, chilly and misting, making it rather unpleasant. Yet there is something so wild, so captivating and dangerous about the rough waves pounding on the rocks below the cliff here…something oddly soothing in its rhythm. I spent part of the evening at the cliff, staring into the sea. It helps me think._

_ And thinking is what I have been doing nonstop since Severus brought me the prophecy. Tonight I have decoded it…I am certain I know who the child is, and what must be done about it. At the risk of sounding like an ordinary wizard, I am almost giddy at the prospect of being done with it once and for all. This divination has hung over my head like the sword of Damocles, and now I am so close to my goal I can taste it._

_ For the first time in a very long time, perhaps ever, I'm __happy__. It's a peculiar feeling._

September 25, 1980

"My lord, are you troubled? You've been out here a long time." Bellatrix sidled up alongside Voldemort where he sat on a crumbling wall outside the castle, most unusual for him.

The night was breezy and crisp, with the smell of ocean hanging in the air; distant sounds of crashing waves could be heard. Not things the dark lord ordinarily cared for, and did his utmost to avoid. Tonight they didn't bother him at all, he had too much to ruminate about. His Death Eaters had completed their assignment, they'd brought him names.

"The report is in, Bellatrix," he said, turning to her with a twisted smile. "There are two boys who fit the profile, born on July 31."

"Two?" she echoed, unable to hide her surprise. The wizarding population of Britain being as small as it was, to have two non-twin wizard births on the same day of the same year was highly atypical.

"Yes, and here's the interesting part: both sets of parents have defied me thrice!" He began to howl with laughter, to which Bella couldn't decide what she should do, so she merely sat down next to him and inched up close.

"Is that a good thing, master?"

Voldemort's laughter subsided enough to explain, "At first when I heard the news, I was perplexed. Neville Longbottom's parents are pureblood aurors who actively work against us. He seems the logical choice."

"Do you want me to assassinate him?" she asked, brightening. "Or all of them?"

Still grinning in his eerily creepy fashion, Voldemort petted her hand. "Not so fast, Bellatrix. The other boy's parents have come up against my Death Eaters more than once. Does the name Potter ring a bell?"

Bella's eyebrows dipped as her eyes flashed with utter loathing. Her lip curled into a snarl. "Potter? As in _James_ Potter, Order of the Phoenix bastard?"

"Precisely."

"Filthy blood traitor mudblood lover! I'd murder him without a reason, but this is too much, my lord!" she fumed, huffing angrily. "Let me kill him and his halfblood spawn, let me kill all of them!"

"You do me proud, Bella," Voldemort sighed. He hadn't been in such a good mood since…well, ever. The one with the potential to defeat him was now within his grasp, all he had to do was crush him underfoot and the world would bow to him. How long he'd waited for this!

"So what are your plans, my lord?"

"Patience, Bellatrix. My Death Eaters in the Ministry traced the ancestry of each boy, going above and beyond their orders in researching these children. I've been sifting through the information, carefully weighing all considerations."

Bella was so antsy she looked as if she'd wriggle right out of her skirt. "Why don't we just eradicate them both?" she whined.

"Would it not be a pity to spill pure blood if it isn't necessary? The number of purebloods is dwindling as it is," Voldemort countered. Looking like the cat who ate the canary, he added, "Besides, I know which one it is."

Leaning forward literally on his lap, Bella gazed upon him with rapt attention and inquired in a hushed whisper, "Who, my lord?"

"Harry Potter."

"How can you be sure?" she pressed, anxious to be on her way wreaking havoc, slaughtering blood traitors, eliminating her master's enemies, and basically being the epitome of a good Death Eater.

"Did you know that I am descended from the Peverell line, Bellatrix?"

"So?" she grumped, pouting. This wasn't turning out to be a fun night at all!

Voldemort stroked her hair as he laid her head down onto his lap. Every so often he'd weave his fingers into the thick mane and give a little tug. "The Peverell line of magic is the strongest; it only makes sense that if anyone had the ability to develop powers to rival mine, he must also be descended from this line." He glanced down at her sulking, yet attentive face. "Harry Potter is descended from this line."

"As if he'll ever be able to match you!" she replied with conviction, rolling her eyes in obvious disbelief. "No one can equal you."

"Nonetheless, better to play it safe. There's been a prophecy; I've identified the brat it concerns, and now all I need to do is be rid of him."

"I'll do it!" she volunteered, leaping up, then falling back long enough to disengage his hands from her hair.

"I think _I_ shall do it, Bellatrix. This upstart will be put in his place before he has the cognizance to know he's a wizard." _And the world will grovel before me when I'm through._

**October 20, 2000**

The outcome of that revelation had culminated in a general meeting with the group of Death Eaters, with words that Snape felt would be branded forever in his mind…and so far, they had been. Try as he might, he could not dislodge them.

"_My friends, I have excellent news for you—for our cause. Severus brought me a prophecy, as you know." There was a general rumble of assent. "Our Ministry spies have rooted out the names of two boys who fit this description, and I have come to the determination that James Potter's child is the one spoken of._"

Severus squelched a violent need to vomit all over again. Voldemort had to make sure he drove home the idea that Snape had been the one to bring the prophecy, and if he'd been the good Death Eater as he should have been, it would have pleased him immensely to be so recognized. But he hadn't been a very good Death Eater after all, had he? Not in his heart.

"_Your assignment, my friends, is to locate the Potter family, but do no harm to the baby," Voldemort warned. "That delight belongs to me_."

Even now, looking back, Severus could scarcely believe his actions. Surely the love potion Lily had fed him wielded an enormous influence in his unconscious decision to risk his life like a fool. Before Severus knew what he was doing, he'd rushed forward to throw himself at his master's feet. "Please, my lord, spare the child's mother! She's done nothing."

_"I am a merciful and generous lord. I reward the loyalty of my followers. Because Snape here has been a devoted servant, I will grant this request. None of you are to harm the redheaded wench. When we find her son, she will be spared as long as she stays out of my way and makes no attempt to hinder me."_

The wretched emotions he felt at that moment in time were etched into his brain. Severus had known Lily would not meekly stand by and allow her child to be murdered. The dark lord's promise meant nothing, because Lily _would_ attempt to hinder him. His first friend in the whole world was to die because of the prophecy _he'd_ brought to the dark lord.

As he stood filled with shock and remorse, he'd vaguely heard the master speaking like a buzzing in his ear, saying something he hadn't comprehended. He'd barely noticed when the Death Eaters began to disapparate until he remained alone. He remembered thinking how fitting it was, that it was all he'd ever be, all he deserved…to be alone.

Why hadn't he thought it through before going to Voldemort? Why hadn't he tried to decipher what it meant? Because he'd so badly desired the approval of the master, he'd hoped to end this war, he'd wanted…he'd wanted to be special. Distinguished. Snape gave a snorted grunt that might have passed for a harsh laugh. He'd been distinguished all right, as the one to bring about the end to Lily and James Potter…

"Severus, you seem singularly pensive," came Dumbledore's voice from his portrait. Craning his neck, he recognized the book on Snape's desk. "May I ask what you're reading?"

Flippant answer on the tip of his tongue, Severus held it back and peered up at the picture, his black, fathomless orbs meeting twinkling blue. "I was thinking how I effectively killed the Potters. Would you like to comment as you've done so often in the past? Tell me I disgust you? Or that my display of emotion is long overdue? I'm sure I deserve it."

The old man sighed, looking troubled. "I made so many mistakes in my life, Severus. The worst was my association with Grindelwald, the death of my sister because of it, and the deaths of who knows how many people due to my affection for him, my reluctance to confront him. But the way I have treated you for all these years is nothing short of despicable."

Inclined to agree, but curious to see where this was going, Snape said nothing.

"Being dead gives one time to reflect, you know…I spend a good deal of time doing that now. I wish I had understood that empathy and compassion work more miracles than holding mistakes and fear of punishment over one's head." Dumbledore sighed again. "And yet…I know this sounds terrible, but in the scheme of things, didn't Voldemort's knowledge of the prophecy bring about his downfall?"

"How so?"

"He marked Harry as his equal, he gave the boy powers he otherwise would not have had." He raised a large black and white lollipop in the shape of a cartoon mouse, overlarge ears tinged in pink, to his mouth and took a long lick. Severus stared in consternation—where in Merlin's name had he got that?

Forcing himself back to topic, he remarked, "If there is a point, would you kindly get to it?"

"Those powers aided Harry in killing Voldemort. If he hadn't done it, who would have?"

"Um…you?" suggested Snape.

"Severus," Albus went on, talking to him like a child, "The prophecy was made whether Tom Riddle heard it or not. As it turned out, the prophecy was right, and I could not have been the one. Additionally, who would have destroyed the horcruxes?"

"Again…you? Or—here's a wild idea—if you'd let me, Moody, and any number of other competent wizards in on your secrets, we would have taken care of the horcruxes." _But you obviously never trusted me enough for that_.

"Just so," Albus agreed in a thin voice. "However, I had a hard time not being in control."

"Really? How shocking," drawled Severus.

"Sarcastic to the end, aren't you?" retorted Dumbledore. "All I'm saying is that maybe it was destined to go this way; maybe when it came right down to it, your part in the event was crucial. Dirty as it was, someone had to deliver the prophecy to Voldemort."

"So the child could be brainwashed at your hand? Albus, Potter still worships you, even after the way you left him with those horrible relatives and let him run headlong toward death's arms over and over."

"I think it's rather charming that he's so loyal," Albus said defensively. "And in the end, things worked out alright, didn't they? Voldemort is dead as a doornail, Harry is happy. After all these years of struggle and heartache and hating the world, you've found love. Stop torturing yourself. Despite it all, there's not a thing you can do to change it."

Severus shook his head. Albus was good at not torturing _himself_. He may have undertaken soul searching, but would he ever admit the extent of his transgressions against Harry and Snape? "I still hate the world," growled Severus, "and you had nothing to do with Aline in my life."

"Didn't I?" he answered maddeningly, eyes twinkling like a star about to nova. "Who do you think suggested to Minerva reinstating you as Headmaster and bringing in women to apply for the post of Potions instructor?"

"Now you're just making things up!" snapped Severus, glaring ferociously.

He'd once believed he deserved to be alone, but fate or God—someone NOT named Albus Dumbledore—had shown him mercy. Deserved or not, he didn't care, and if the old coot had a hand in it, well…good for him. About time he did something decent for the man who'd spent half his life in servitude. Aline and his children loved and respected him; he had staunch friends that he trusted with his life, like Lucius, Bayly, and Regulus. That was enough.

Albus took another long, slow lick of his lollipop. "Whatever you say, Severus."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"So you're ready then?" asked Theo.

"I was born ready," remarked Blaise casually. He patted his cousin's shoulder in a way that should have felt reassuring, but came across more cocky.

"Just be your usual…" Theo paused to search for the appropriate word, and came up blank. So much for offering last minute advice. "Your usual…self…and you'll make the impression I'm hoping for."

Acting affronted, Blaise shot back, "Hey, I can be very charming."

"He's not a girl."

"Oh, right," said Blaise, smirking. "Never mind then. Off we go."

"Off _you_ go," Theo answered. "I've got to keep my distance until the time is right. And remember not to piss him off too much, this is only the first round."

"Nag, nag, nag," Blaise returned, rolling his eyes. You'd swear he had no experience in being a right pain in the arse! He led the way to the back garden and stepped onto the patio. "I'll let you know how it went as soon as I get back."

With that he disapparated, and reappeared in Diagon Alley a few stores away from the joke shop. He glanced about impatiently, took out his pocket watch to check the time, and thrust it back into his robes. Not technically late, but never early, either! He paced up and down in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, peering in the window, too preoccupied to take note of what he was seeing.

"Been waiting long?" came a woman's voice.

Blaise turned to Pansy, relieved and scowling at once. "About bloody time." His gaze dropped to her abdomen, where a very noticeable bump resided. His brows raised. "When did that happen?"

Pansy's face twisted slightly and she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder with a flip of her hand. "I'm five months pregnant, you berk. I believe Gregory informed you months ago, and if you ever came to visit, you wouldn't look so shocked at how big I've got."

Blaise shrugged. "Sorry, I've been busy. I was surprised is all. You look great."

"Thank you. Does Theo know you invited me in on this?"

"Nooo," he confessed slowly, grinning. "But what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Safety in numbers, peer pressure, be prepared, and all that."

"What are you blathering about?" she asked.

"I'm invoking relevant clichés," he said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Honestly, you've lost sight of the real world."

"It doesn't get any more real than this," Pansy retorted, stroking her baby bulge. "And if you want me to go with you, tone down the snide."

"Sorry, your majesty," he grumped. He extended an elbow to her, which she took, and they walked along to the shop. Her pregnancy was a bonus, he thought: Weasley wouldn't dare hex Pansy in her condition, and likely not anyone nearby, either—just in case. Blaise held the door for his friend, then followed her in with an involuntary glance at the portrait of Fred inside.

"Hello, folks. Welcome to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," the portrait greeted them.

"Er, hi," said Pansy, twisting to look over her shoulder.

"Hey," said Blaise, feeling strangely naked, as if Fred could see into his soul, could tell he'd impersonated Charlie. He shuffled quickly ahead, pushing on Pansy's back. She reached behind to whack him in the thigh, barely missing his bits. "Watch it!" he yelped.

"Stop shoving me," she answered. She'd paused by the counter to peer at the display of Patented Daydream Charms. "I've heard these are quite good."

"You're married, what do you need a romantic daydream for?" queried Blaise. His lip curled slightly. "Then again, Goyle's not exactly romantic."

"And you would know this _how_?" demanded Pansy, staring him down. "Have you been seeing him behind my back?" She chortled at his expression.

Blaise flushed, though his dark skin hardly changed. "Very funny."

"I thought so." Pansy scooted along past the window where an array of WonderWitch products was stored. "Look, Blaise, ten-second pimple vanisher. I know how vain you are."

Even as he plucked the little pink pot off the shelf, he replied, "It's a public service. Ladies expect me to be flawless, you know, and I don't like to disappoint them." Further down they stopped at the bin of round balls of fluff, mostly pink and purple. "Pansy, they've got pygmy puffs."

A voice directly behind them made them start. "Can I help you?"

Blaise whipped his head around. "Oi, Regulus, good to see you! We were admiring the puffs here." He noticed George with a customer nearby and, seeing his opportunity, he added more loudly than necessary, "Any timeline on when the miniature weasels arrive?" He pointed at two purring orange fluff balls and said, "Oh, there they are!"

He proceeded to guffaw at his own cleverness, and Pansy laughed with him. "I almost confused them with the owners," she smirked.

Regulus, who enjoyed a good joke, kept a straight face. He liked George—all of the Weasleys, actually. Alright, he wasn't too keen on Percy, but the rest he liked. He didn't appreciate being tacitly expected to take sides in their little game.

"Better watch it, Zabini," he cautioned, noting the grimace on George's face. "George is busy inventing new products, and you wouldn't want him to test them on you prematurely."

"What kind of creations?" Blaise prodded, intrigued.

"I can't tell you. Are you finished shopping? The register is—"

"We just got here," interrupted Pansy as she picked up a purple pygmy puff. "I want this one. Come on, Blaise, let's check out the Dark Arts sector."

"Right behind you," Blaise replied, waving to Regulus and following her. As he passed George he said, "Kind of odd that the ones purporting to hate Dark Arts have a whole section devoted to it."

"It's Defense Against the Dark Arts," George called after him.

Blaise stopped, turned, and gave a patently fake smile. "You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to." He whirled and strode after Pansy.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

That evening, Regulus warily approached his back door, where an insistent knocking startled him out of a pleasant nap. Neighborhood muggles never came to the back garden, meaning it had to be someone he knew…probably. He pushed aside the curtain and drew in a relieved breath as he opened the door.

"Theo, what are you doing here?" He stepped aside to let the young man in. "This is a surprise."

"Sorry, did I wake you?" answered Theo, noting the other's disheveled appearance. "Oh my God, you don't have a girl here, do you?"

Reg stared back, still not quite awake and certainly not comprehending the inquiry. "What? No, why?"

"Never mind. It's been a while since we hung out," said Theo, producing a bottle of wine and walking into the living room. "I thought if you're not busy, we could have a drink, watch that…box-thing…"

"Telly."

"Yeah. And we could talk. We don't talk often enough." With his wand, Theo popped the cork from the bottle as he seated himself on a wingchair. "So, what's going on in your life?"

"Not much, just working," answered Reg. He _accio_'d a couple of glasses from the kitchen and set them on the coffee table for Theo to fill.

"Well, tell me about work then. I'm sure there are loads of fun stories…" Theo lifted his glass in a sort of salute and downed the wine in two gulps. Regulus smiled and followed suit.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Where do you think you're going, young man?" Narcissa stormed across the room, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, her pretty face sporting a scowl.

Draco half-turned away from the fireplace in the main sitting room; he smiled sheepishly as he tried unsuccessfully to return the floo powder to the urn without his mother noticing. "I was going to see Tori before she leaves to rejoin her concert tour."

"Tanassov and Dr. Livingston both said you shouldn't be traveling by floo," Narcissa reminded him, as if it were necessary. Already he'd stepped back and sat down heavily on the sofa. "Until the doctor says it's alright, you will stay put."

"Mother, I'm not a child. I feel fine—"

"You are _my_ child, and you always will be." Narcissa seated herself beside him, her hand affectionately patting his leg. "Please, Draco, don't make me worry over you. I can't bear it."

"I'm sorry," he answered softly. "But if I don't do it now, I don't know when I'll get another chance."

"Are our owls ill? Have you sent her a message?"

"No. I want to tell her in person."

Narcissa regarded her son carefully. The set of his face, the downcast expression in his stormy grey eyes told her before she asked. "What have you decided about Astoria?"

"I have to tell her face to face," he began. Even as he said it, he realized how unpromising it sounded. "I love Tori, and I want to be with her, but…there are so many obstacles. She's young and immature, I'm going back to Bulgaria soon, she has her music tours…"

"I thought you two had discussed those things," said his mother. Personally, she liked Astoria, and it saddened her that Draco was considering making the break permanent. Pretty pureblood girls who loved the whole family weren't an easy thing to acquire. "Real relationships are not effortless, son. Your father and I love each other very much, but we had some quite difficult times to overcome at first, too."

"Like what? Everyone says you two have been lovey-dovey since the day you began dating," Draco said skeptically.

"For example, the time I thought Lucius had shagged a girl in our class," Narcissa admitted, blushing a light pink, her eyes searching out something other than the round-eyed look of consternation from her son. It wasn't a topic she enjoyed at the best of times, and certainly not to discuss with her baby. "I slapped him and broke the engagement in front of our housemates. I humiliated him, and it turned out to be false, a lie created by the shameless little slut who'd set her designs on my man."

"Wow. How come I never heard of this before?" asked Draco.

"I'm not proud of it," Narcissa replied, forcing herself to make eye contact. "And there was the time I found out he was a Death Eater…it's complicated, and I don't care to go into it, but suffice it to say life isn't simple, Draco. What you need to remember is things that are most worthwhile are not easy. If you decide not to see Tori again, that's your choice—but don't think everything will be clear sailing with another girl, because it won't be. There will always be problems."

Draco didn't answer right away. He'd spent days ruminating on what to do, he'd come to a verdict…and in the past two minutes his mother had effectively undone his resolve. Did that mean he hadn't truly committed to his decision? Right now he wasn't sure about much of anything.

He swallowed hard. "So what should I do?"

Gently taking his face between her palms, Narcissa said, "Follow your heart, sweetie. Don't be afraid to work for it if it's what you want, and don't be shy to fight for it if it's what you need."

"Mother, be honest with me: do you think it can work out between Tori and me?"

Narcissa nodded, smiling as if she had a secret. "Yes, I do. Perhaps right now things are rocky, and you need to go slowly, but time changes everything."

Draco leaned in to squeeze her in an embrace. "Thank you. I'd better write her before she goes. I'll ask her to come over."

"I hope you have a productive talk," said Narcissa, getting up from the sofa. "Go write that letter."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Astoria's hands trembled as she attempted to untie the note from the Malfoy owl's leg. Finally Draco had written…but would she like what he had to say? So many days had gone by she'd feared he had decided not to contact her at all, though she ought to have known better; he was a Malfoy, he had a code to uphold, and even if he found the task distasteful, he'd do it out of obligation.

She managed to loose the parchment, and the owl skittered to the edge of the table to peck at the biscuits she'd left there. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she unrolled it and read:

_Dear Astoria,_

_Please forgive me for the long delay. I thought that if I carefully contemplated every aspect of our relationship, I could reach the rational conclusion as to what I should do._

_As it turns out, I'm an idiot. There is nothing rational about love. So are you, by the way, so don't laugh. By my reckoning, the most logical course of action is for us to be idiots together, thereby saving two other innocent people from us._

_We have a lot to talk about, and I don't expect everything to fall in line right away, but if you're willing to try, so am I. Come see me._

_Love, Draco_

"Mum, I'm going to see Draco!" Clutching the paper in her fist, she ran headlong for the fireplace and was gone in an instant.

At the other end of the floo, she emerged to find Draco sitting in an armchair near the mantel. He got up, stretched out his arms, and she fled to the security of his embrace. There was a lot to discuss, compromises to be made, ground rules to establish. That could wait; for now, they both needed to be held.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 21, 2000**

Winky crept into the babies' bedroom, where she stood silently watching her darling little masters sleeping. Aidan lay on his back, his arms flung out to either side like the king of the mattress. Adriel's cheek rested on his brother's shoulder, his own hand on Aidan's chest, his face so close to the latter he could have kissed him.

"My prettys," Winky whispered, tilting her head to gaze in awe. How she loved her new family! She made a minute adjustment to the blanket, then slipped backward through the door, only to bump into Aline.

"Oops," Aline whispered. She stroked Winky's head. "They're so precious when they sleep."

"They is always precious, Mistress," declared Winky, nodding so hard she resembled a bobble-headed doll.

Aline bent down to give the elf a tremendous hug. "Yes, they are. I'm so glad you're here to help care for them and love them."

Winky's tennis-ball eyes filled with sudden tears. "Mistress is so good to Winky."

Before the elf dissolved into another maudlin display that would wake the children, the witch hurried to steer her out of the room in the direction of the kitchen as she changed the subject. "Have you put away the boys' laundry?"

"Oh, yes," Winky nodded some more, grinning now. "Winky knows Mistress Snape is anal about organizing, so Winky labels all the clothing to put in the right cabinets."

Aline gaped at her, blinking back surprise. "I'm _anal_?"

"Is what Master Snape says," Winky went on blithely. "I even color-codes to make easier—"

A sharp 'snap' rent the air, and Kreacher came hobbling toward them from the kitchen, his perpetual frown deepening at the sight of Winky. He overtly ignored her, while sweetly crooning, "Mistress, my master Regulus sends me for anti-nausea brew, if you please." He bowed so low his pointed nose scraped the ground.

"Is Regulus sick?" asked Aline, concerned.

"Kreacher thinks good master was drinking a tad too much last night. Kreacher finds wine bottles on the floor." The elf noticed another flicker of concern on the human's face. "Not alone, no. He had company."

"Stay here, Kreacher. I'll look through my potions to find the best one for his condition," said Aline. In three strides she reached the door to the cellar, and her steps clomped along on the wood, growing fainter with each pace.

Kreacher now deigned to size up his nemesis, who hadn't ceased glaring at him since he arrived. "What is Finky doing here?"

"I is _Winky,_ you nasty, ugly Kreacher!" she howled back. "I is the Snape house elf." She straightened up and puffed out her scrawny chest beneath her long, pink pillowcase decorated with frilly rows of lace running from each shoulder to the hem.

"They must be hard up to take you," he jeered.

Winky hauled off and slapped him resoundingly across the face, shocking him into silence. He stood open-mouthed as she hissed, "Nobody insults my family. You is Black elf because you born to be. I is _chosen_ by Snape family, and Winky protects her family!"

"Winky?" Aline came up from behind, carrying a small purple vial. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Mistress," beamed the elf, turning to the witch. "I is telling stupid Kreacher that Winky loves you and Master and babies, and Winky not lets anyone be mean to them."

"Well…good," said Aline weakly. She didn't want to discourage the loyalty, but Merlin! Funny how no one ever mentioned the terrible rivalries between elves—or was it only these two particular elves? "Kreacher, this should make Regulus feel better within a few minutes. If he needs anything else, let me know."

"Thank you, Mistress Snape. My good master thanks you." He bowed again and popped out.

As if forgetting he'd ever been there, Winky toddled happily over to the stove. "What would Mistress like for supper?"


	41. Subtle Persuasion

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 41 (Subtle Persuasion)

**March 14, 1940**

The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher tapped his wand on the blackboard, where the highlights of today's lesson magically appeared. "In conclusion, the Imperius Curse, Legilimency, and various memory charms are the most effective methods of invading or controlling a person's mind. Any questions?"

Every hand in the class of third years went up, and a chorus of voices rang out:

"How do we protect ourselves?"

"Isn't the Imperius illegal?"

"How many memory charms are there?"

"Are we allowed to use them?"

Tom Riddle leaned over to Mulciber, a disgusted sneer marring his handsome face. Able to speak freely with the raucous chatter all about, he said, "I've learned practically nothing in here all year. If he's going to bring up the spells, he ought to demonstrate them."

In a flash he realized the clamor had suddenly died down, and his last sentence hung in the air like a putrid cloud. A classroom of eyes turned his way. Professor Nostrum stared at him in astonishment; Tom wasn't one to make waves or question authority.

"Tom, I think a boy of your intellect understands that I am not permitted to use my students as guinea pigs," he huffed, in contrast to his earlier drone. "The Imperius is an Unforgivable, Legilimens are few and far between, and memory charms can be dangerous."

"I'm sorry, Professor," said Tom in such a contrite tone he almost fooled himself. "I guess it's just scary to think people can manipulate us so effortlessly, and we're helpless against them."

Professor Nostrum's expression softened. Naturally the children would fear that which seemed insurmountable. "There are those capable of resisting the Imperius, those of strong will and firm purpose. Occlumency is an art capable of thwarting Legilimency."

"Can you teach it to us?" asked Tom, his dark eyes exuding the appropriate concern.

The instructor hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm afraid that is frowned upon—for me to teach you, I mean. I'm sure there are books in the library that can outline the process. That's the lesson for today, class is dismissed."

Tom waited until he and Mulciber were a good distance from the classroom before speaking, at which time he pressed his companion against the stone wall and hissed, "Go to the library and get me everything you can find related to Occlumency. Bring them to our room."

He turned on his heel and walked at a fast clip in the direction of the dungeons. He'd learned something in class after all; now he simply needed to master Occlumency on his own.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Are you going to teach us Occlumency?" asked Nott. He sat on Mulciber's bed, for none of them ever dared invade Riddle's territory.

Tom looked up from the stack of books he'd been poring over. "Eventually. I need to teach myself first." He flipped a few more pages of an especially thick volume. "It doesn't seem like it should be too difficult." Not that difficulty could dissuade him.

A thought struck Tom, and he smiled. He'd been wanting to try this, but an opportune time hadn't presented itself…until now. "I'd like to peer into your minds, and you see if you can prevent me."

"Peer into our minds?" Lestrange echoed, laughing. "You think you're a Legilimens now?" He stopped abruptly when Tom's cold gaze landed on him.

"No, Claudius. I've thought—no, I've _known_ I was a Legilimens for years. I merely didn't know the term for it when I was younger. Does it surprise you that the parselmouth Heir of Slytherin should be so gifted?" One dark brow rose a touch.

Claudius shook his head. "But you never said anything about it."

"Now I have." He waved a beckoning hand at the younger boy, who approached and sat in the chair Tom had telekinetically summoned to the side of his bed. Without further ado, he bent forward to stare into Lestrange's eyes, reading old memories and feelings as he'd done in the past to his then-unsuspecting comrades.

This time he added a twist. Lestrange, like so many purebloods, held a distinct loathing toward those of 'impure bloodlines', particularly those of muggle birth—mudbloods. However, his antipathy for muggles themselves overwhelmingly outweighed his extreme dislike of witches and wizards of low birth, his desire to be rid of them steeped in generations of hatred. To hold the power of life and death over muggles remained a passion that, given time, could conceivably come to fruition.

Tom concentrated on the image of Claudius as a grown man working for the Ministry of Magic in a new department created just for him and those of like mind. He finessed the vision a tad more until Lestrange smiled broadly, envisioning himself the Director of Muggle Extermination.

Riddle sat back to regard the other lad. Claudius hadn't even tried to block the intrusion—or if he had, he'd failed spectacularly. "What do you see, Claudius?"

"Me, grown up," answered Lestrange. "Like a…like a vision of what I'll be when we take over the magical world. I have what I want."

"Your reward for faithful service," said Tom. "There will be hard times on our path, but in the end you may attain your desires." He motioned to Nott. "Your turn."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 23, 2000**

_March 14, 1940_

_ Today has been most productive. Not only have I begun to study Occlumency (which I'm confident I will master in short order), I've let my companions know I am a Legilimens. I have held back till now, and wouldn't have told them except it served a greater purpose._

_ One by one I looked into their minds, read them to ascertain what motivates them, what they truly covet, and I built upon it. I planted images, mirages if you will, in their brains. These images give them something to aspire to, to call upon when they feel weak—something to cling to as a reward for service to me in overthrowing the system and establishing our own rule. Well, __my__ rule. They only think they will share in my power. Certainly I must delegate some authority to my followers, as I can't run the country entirely without underlings supervising the masses. But all the true power will be mine._

So Tom had begun at a very young age, Severus thought, shaking his head. Until now he hadn't quite understood why Voldemort's minions had remained loyal to him for so long, loyal to the point of willingly bringing their sons and relatives into the fold even when things weren't going well; now it became clear. Although Tom never _explicitly_ promised anything, Voldemort (and young Tom, apparently) had planted the seed in their minds, the seed assuring greatness despite present hardships, the seed guaranteeing triumph and reward if only they persevered.

The magic of those images was so strong that even now Severus remembered the feeling when it had been impressed into his brain, a glorious feeling of victory, of satisfaction, of _elation_ at what was to come. For himself the vision had taken the form of a new branch of the Ministry, the Justice Bureau, wherein Snape would be respected and feared, where he could legally exact revenge on his enemies as he saw fit. Very alluring indeed when he'd been a boy of seventeen, bristling with enmity toward his tormentors.

He'd never spoken of it to another, not even to Lucius. It had seemed so personal, so special—and once he broke ranks with Voldemort, so impossible that he'd allowed it to be relegated to the back of his mind. Yet he'd never forgotten, and even still the idea thrilled him from the residual magic embedded in the mirage. Powerful, deceitful magic. It made him feel foolish now to think himself the only recipient of this grand illusion given by the dark lord. Why on Earth had he been so obtuse? Why had he believed Voldemort would offer him greatness and not do the same for the rest? It was all a lie anyway, why not spread it around to gain cooperation from everyone?

He wondered idly what image had been given to Lucius. Proprietorship over Gringotts once the goblins had been run off? And Marshal: Weapons Supply? More likely something devoted to Lestrange's Muggle Extermination Unit.

"Severus, may we come in?" The tightly bunned head of Minerva popped round the corner, and she entered uninvited, followed by Hagrid.

Out of habit Snape swept the diary into his drawer and shut it quietly, his eyes fixed on the intruders. "Yes, Minerva?"

"Something's happened," said the witch, wringing her bony hands. "I'd like to think it's a natural phenomenon, but I fear it isn't." She beckoned at Hagrid, who lumbered forward carrying a burlap sack.

He opened the bag and unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the middle of the floor: five birds, all dead, none bearing any visible marks or signs of foul play. "I found these 'ere out by the lake, round t'other side, jus' layin' there under a tree."

Severus rose slowly to his feet, rounded the desk, and knelt on one knee beside the bird carcasses. Ordinarily he'd have scathingly reproached the giant for depositing carrion in his office, but circumstances being what they were, this was probably the best place to study them at the moment. Until they knew how the animals had died and what—or who—was responsible, it was prudent to keep the knowledge from the public at large.

He poked at one of the birds, a raven. The body was stiff, unyielding. Had there been a shock wave of some sort that killed members of a flock, the birds would be of the same variety, yet they were not. Two ravens, a cardinal, a sparrow, and a robin…not a group that hung around together. Taking out his wand, he performed a series of diagnostic tests for diseases and poisons. He picked one up to examine it manually.

His brow furrowed and he frowned. "I don't detect any sign of unnatural death, nor of toxins. Nevertheless, this is obviously not natural. It appears these birds were deliberately killed, although not by strangulation or blunt force. I will need to study them further."

"That only leaves magic," breathed Minerva, looking very worried. "Is it possible one of our students—or a gang of them—are responsible?" Severus half-expected her to accuse Slytherin House on the spot.

"What kind o' kid would do such a thing?" asked Hagrid, scratching at his massive beard. "Poor critters didn't do no harm ter no one."

"We don't know that it is a student or students," Severus cautioned, getting to his feet. "However, we must consider all the angles. Hagrid, bag these animals and take them to the Potions lab. I'd like to be sure of what killed them before getting worked up. In the meantime, it never hurts to keep a wary eye out."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Regulus' business training was progressing remarkably well, for which Lucius was grateful; Draco had shown neither interest nor aptitude for the endeavor, though Lucius had forced him to learn the basics nonetheless. He'd finally come around to Draco's proposal of letting Reg conduct the business aspects when Draco took over the family fortune—his portion of it, that is. With any luck, Ladon would possess a flair for managing money and making it increase…with double luck, Khala would inherit her father's enterprising sense as well.

Intent on giving Regulus some hands-on training in how to best handle the goblins at Gringotts, he'd met up with the young man after Reg finished work and brought him to the source. As they strode down Diagon Alley, the white marble of the bank shining like a beacon ahead, Reg gestured off to the right.

"Huh. Wonder why Theo's hiding between the buildings."

Lucius directed his gaze that way. Sure enough, Theo Nott had flattened himself in the alley beside Gringotts, his chest to the wall next to the steps leading to the bank, his head poking out and peeking up at the burnished bronze doors.

"One way to find out," said Lucius. He sauntered over to the youth, who detected a presence and looked up abashedly at Malfoy, then gave a sickly grin. "Theodore, I presume you have good reason to be skulking about like a thief. I must advise you that your attempt at concealment is inadequate, at best."

"Hi, Mr. Malfoy," Theo murmured, straightening up as he cast another glance at the bank. "I wasn't doing anything, I just…" What could he say? 'I was just trolling the back alleys for fun while spying on the bank'? That sounded perfectly rational and normal—for a psychopath!

"You're not doing anything," Lucius repeated, drawing out each word so it ended up sounding like a complete, contrived fib. "The same way you weren't doing anything when you got Regulus drunk the other night?"

Theo's lips formed a little 'o', mirroring his eyes, which had grown round and wide. "I…didn't." _Nice comeback, Nott! Are you freaking retarded?_

"Don't lie to me, boy," said Lucius calmly, even managing a half-smile that would have sent Draco into a panic. "It's insulting, and frankly you're not very good at it. You're aware, no doubt, that Regulus has a problem saying no to alcohol. As his friend, I'd think you'd consider not feeding his addiction."

"I didn't mean any harm. I only wanted to talk," Theo answered, evidently agitated.

"Hello?" interrupted Regulus, who'd been standing there for most of the conversation. "Why does everyone talk about me like I'm not here? If I wanna drink, I should be allowed to drink. It's not Theo's fault."

Lucius shot him a tight lipped shut-up-and-behave glower, then continued with his lecture. "I'm shrewd enough to grasp that you did so in order to fish for information, Theodore, though regarding what I haven't a clue. Unless you'd like me to take up this discussion with your parents, you'll tell me what this is all about. While you're at it, why are you sneaking here in alleyways?"

Theo bit his lip, scrutinizing Lucius as his mind whirled. Mr. Malfoy had no qualms about squealing to Theo's parents, and Theo knew from experience that they wouldn't let this matter lie, they'd insist on squeezing the facts from him. While they may agree with his objectives, they would _not_ appreciate his contributing to Regulus' delinquency…or his own, for that matter. If Theo were honest with himself, he wasn't proud of the way he'd used Reg's weakness against him; that was something one did to enemies, not friends. But if he told the truth, Reg might let Weasley know…

"I'm waiting, Theodore." Lucius tapped his cane impatiently on the cobblestones. _Clack, clack, clack._

Hanging his head and heaving a defeated sigh, Theo uttered, "I'm stalking Weasley."

"George? Why?" exclaimed Regulus, moving out of Lucius' reach in the event he decided to enforce his earlier silent order to belt up.

One blond eyebrow quirked upward curiously, and Lucius drawled, "While I'm sure it is somehow, on some level, an admirable goal, it explains nothing."

"Reg, you can't say anything," Nott insisted.

"I won't," Regulus assured him.

Theo tilted his head as if to say he wished he could believe that. "I mean it, this is important, and you kind of—you—"

"Have a big mouth," Lucius finished for him. He smiled at the pouting Black. "Although you have been known to keep secrets in grave matters, Regulus, and I trust you'll do so now. Go on, Theo."

Another glance at the bronze doors of the bank, where an elderly couple had come out, then Theo looked from Lucius to Reg and back again. "Weasley made it clear he's after Jacinta. I intend to stop him."

An involuntary tic at the mention of Snape's daughter and Weasley in the same sentence jerked at the corner of Lucius' mouth and eye simultaneously. "_After Jacinta? _ Meaning?"

"He's taken a fancy to my girlfriend!" Theo snapped as the anger surged through him again. "He told Charlie—well, Blaise Polyjuiced as Charlie—that he sees her as a conquest."

It took a moment for Lucius to wrap his head around that one. Not only was the boy's girlfriend being targeted by a Weasley, there was also an intriguing story of Polyjuice involved. Without consciously willing it, Lucius' wand was in his hand. He loved Jacinta like a daughter, and no one was going to amuse himself at her expense, especially a bloody Weasley!

"That doesn't sound like George," Reg piped up. "He's a straight up bloke from what I've seen of him. If he made a play for Jacinta, it would be because he really likes her….oooooh." That explained a lot, like the long looks in the window as they passed Peak's Portraits, and the little, seemingly innocuous questions he asked about Jacinta now and again.

"I don't give a f—k!" Theo hissed. "I love her. He's not getting her in any way at all!"

"So you're here to exact justice?" asked Lucius.

"Yes—no. Not at this second," Theo said, pushing Lucius' arm down, only to receive a piercing glare that rammed through him like a cold steel pole. He immediately let go. "Please, Mr. Malfoy, let me do this my way. Jacinta doesn't like the idea of men dueling over women, she thinks it implies that women can't defend themselves or make proper choices on their own."

"Very Snape-like of her," observed Reg. "Strong willed."

"Yeah. Anyway, we've got a plan, and if all goes well Jacinta will soon see Weasley for what he is and won't want anything to do with him."

"And if it doesn't go well?" inquired Lucius.

Theo shrugged. "Then curse his arse, for all I care. I just don't wanna make her mad at me."

"A pissed Snape is a dangerous Snape," Regulus said sagely, as if quoting a proverb. When Theo and Lucius stared at him he demanded, "What? It's true!"

Lucius returned his wand to the shaft of his cane. He'd have to wait this out, see what happened before making a move of his own. Most certainly it was wise to withhold this information from Severus, who'd likely hex first and ask questions later. Giving a smirk, he patted Theo on the shoulder. "Carry on. And you may want to utilize a disillusion charm. Come along, Regulus, we've got work to do."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Rab and Livonia stayed in their seats in the back of the theatre, waiting for the bulk of the population to leave. As the movie credits ran along the screen, they glimpsed around themselves furtively. It felt odd to be here—among so many muggles, in a strange place, watching on a huge screen fantastic things most wizards and witches had never seen or believed possible.

"Are you ready?" Rab asked softly, gearing up for the dreaded walk to the pavement where they'd be free of this oppressive atmosphere.

"Yes, but I have to use the loo," Liv answered. An animated glimmer shone in her eyes. "Wasn't this exciting? Bayly has told me about the places he's gone with Regulus and Theo and Draco, but I never imagined it like this. They're not nearly as primitive as I thought."

"What aren't?"

"Muggles," she whispered, brushing her lips to his ear as if afraid someone might overhear.

"Oh," Rabby said noncommittally. Before talking to Livonia, he'd never dreamed such things as films even existed, and he grudgingly admitted to himself that the muggles had done some pretty spectacular things, including those flying creatures…aeroplanes? Still, they didn't have magic, which automatically made them lesser beings. But maybe they weren't quite as backward as he'd been led to believe.

Hand in hand they got up and filed out of the room, down the hall, and into the vestibule, where little stick figures on the doorways proclaimed male or female occupancy. Livonia veered into the female bathroom, leaving Rabby to stand with his back to the wall, arms crossed, as he eyed passersby. The clothes they wore! Ugh! His black trousers and violet silk shirt, the closest he'd deign to dressing as a muggle, brought scant attention except admiringly from a lady or two. Had he been Dolph, he'd have recognized the hungry expression in their eyes that radiated their attraction to him; for his part, he avoided eye contact along with any other contact, and wouldn't have been interested if he _had_ noticed. Liv was the only woman he wanted to see.

As the pair exited the theatre, Livonia squeezed his hand and leaned against him. "Thank you so much for a lovely dinner, and for taking me to this film. I can tell you don't feel comfortable around muggles."

"Does it show that much?" he asked simply.

"A little. You look stuck up," she laughed. "I never mingle with them, either…I just wanted to see what it was like."

He hesitated, then proceeded cautiously. "So do you feel comfortable around them?"

"Not really, no. But it was fun, wasn't it?"

Rab smiled down at her. "It was. Anywhere I go with you is fun."

A radiant smile beamed on her face and she hugged him as they walked. "It's getting late, I suppose you need to get up early for work."

"I'm alright. Why don't you come home with me, it's only a few blocks from here. We can have a drink, talk for a while," he implored, his dark eyes that she so adored pleading like puppy dog eyes. He didn't want this night to end, not ever. It was the best he'd ever spent, better even than when he'd been with Candice.

"Are you sure we won't bother Dolph?" she asked.

"No. He's usually up at this time, and if he's sleeping, he sleeps like a rock." Turning to her, Rabby noticed the goose bumps on her arms; he surreptitiously took out his wand and cast a warming charm over her. "Better?"

_I can think of other ways to warm me up_, she thought naughtily, running a hand over the arm of his smooth silk shirt. "Perfect. Let's go then."

Inside Rabby's house, he settled Liv on the sofa and proceeded to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea, then removed a couple of glasses from the cabinet for drinks. He pulled a bottle of rum from another cabinet, then spun around to find Dolph watching him from the doorway, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

"Hey, Dolph."

"Hey, Rab. Congratulations, I see you finally got Liv to come home with you. Good thing you didn't bring her half an hour ago; I was exercising starkers in the living room," he said matter-of-factly. He brushed by to get a drink of water.

"That's gross! Why would you do that?" exclaimed his brother, spilling the rum on the counter as he whirled in surprise.

"Makes it easier to wank afterward," Dolph replied, holding back a chuckle.

"How disgusting! What's got into you?"

Dolph burst into a laugh and clapped his brother on the back. "You're so easy! Lighten up, Rab, I was joking. Trying to set the mood so you can enjoy tonight." He winked.

Rab rolled his eyes and blew out a breath. "She's not staying. She agreed to come over for a drink, not for…that."

"You wanna shag her, you know you do," Dolph persisted, jabbing him gently and repeatedly in the side. "Just ask her."

"No! It doesn't matter what I want; if she's not ready I'm not going to push her," he retorted. "Excuse me, I've got a date."

He swept by into the living room and handed Livonia a tumbler of rum. "It may be strong for you, but I haven't got anything else. I'm making tea in case you'd like some."

"Thank you—" was all she got out before Dolph ambled in and leaned on the door frame.

"I see Firebolt likes you," he said, gesturing at the orange cat on her lap, purring as she stroked its fur.

"She's a sweet kitty," said Liv. Firebolt laid back her ears, stretched out, and purred more strongly.

"Tell that to my dog. She nearly gouged his eyes out for eating some of her food."

"Your dog started it," Rabby interjected defensively. "Firebolt was minding her own business, and he shoved her…sorry, Liv, this isn't the time to get into that. Dolph, do you mind?"

"Not at all." Dolph lifted a hand in salute. "Goodnight, Liv. Rabby." He walked off down the hall whistling to himself.

Liv took a sip of the rum, and promptly choked and hacked as it ran from her mouth onto the rug while he pounded her back. When she could breathe again, she said weakly, "You know, I really ought to go."

"I'm sorry. Next time I'll have something less strong." Rab got up with her, wishing he could make her stay and not knowing any words to cause it to be so. "I had a wonderful night."

"So did I," Livonia agreed. She led him to the door, where she paused to turn and kiss him. The whiskers from his clipped beard tickled her lips, and suddenly she pulled him so tight to her that he gave a squeak. For several minutes they stood next to the door snogging, only coming up for air, and at last she pulled away long enough to say, "Rab, I want you to spend the night with me."

"You what?" he asked stupidly.

In answer she dragged him outside, shut the door behind them, and disapparated, with him in tow. He'd get the message soon enough.


	42. Slither, Slither, Little Snake

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 42 (Slither, Slither, Little Snake)

(A/N: I wanted to thank my muse, A. Delova, for planting the idea in MY head about Voldemort using some form of mind manipulation on his subjects in the last chapter.)

**September 30, 1938**

"Ho there, boy."

Tom stopped in his tracks in the lonely, dark passage of the dungeon labyrinth he'd been trapped in for hours. The gravelly voice, while brusque and far from friendly, felt welcome all the same. "Hello? Who's there?"

"Up here," said the voice.

Tom raised his wand, its tip lit, and slowly made a circle in place while peering up at the walls, the ceiling being too high for the weak lamp to illuminate. Behind him, on the wall, hung a single portrait. He approached to get a better look at the monkey-faced man wearing a gaudy gold locket with an 'S' on it. "Are you speaking to me?"

"Who else would I be speaking to?" retorted the man, gesturing at the otherwise empty corridor. "What are you doing wandering around here by yourself?"

For a split second Tom considered telling the truth: he was lost. However, pride and inherent sneakiness precluded revealing that fact, so he said offhandedly, "I'm having a look about."

"You've been by me three times," said the other drolly. "Unless you're incredibly thick and can't recall what you've seen, I'd have to say you're lost."

"Am not!" Tom snapped, drawing his lips into a pout. "I've gone off course is all. I'll find my way soon enough."

"That or starve to death," returned the portrait. His smirk did nothing to improve his appearance. "Or your Head of House will send the ghosts looking for you. You'd better hope Peeves doesn't find you, he's quite unpleasant."

Tom wisely restrained himself from observing that the portrait was hardly an emblem of warmth and cheer. A rumbling in his stomach reminded him he'd been here far too long. "Could you kindly direct me back to the common room?"

"In my day, firsties didn't wander the halls unsupervised," replied the man, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"I'm not a firstie!" Tom shot back nastily, affronted. "I'm a second year, and when was your day? A hundred years ago? Things have changed."

"_Obviously_," said the portrait in parseltongue, giving the boy a most decidedly hateful glower. "_And try more like a thousand years, worthless little brat. Get out of my corridor."_

Tom didn't move. Scratch that; his jaw dropped and his eyes popped, while his feet remained rooted to the spot.

"Do you have a problem with your hearing? Get out!" demanded the man, this time in plain English.

"_You speak parseltongue,"_ Tom murmured in the snake language, his demeanor no longer belligerent or annoyed. _"Are—are you Salazar Slytherin?"_

It was Salazar's turn to gape openly. In all his years as a wizard, and now a thousand years as a portrait, he'd not come across another parselmouth aside from his own children and grandchildren. "Yes. Who are you? Why can you speak it?"

"I'm Tom Riddle. My grandfather is Marvolo Gaunt. I've read the Gaunts are descended from your line." Tom smiled almost shyly, not the affectation he used for teachers or others he wished to manipulate, but a genuine display of feeling…almost reverence.

"My line has nearly died out, so I am told by a friend who drops by on occasion," revealed Salazar in a somber tone. "But the Gaunts remain." He scrutinized the handsome boy in front of him. So, after all this time he finally met one of his descendants—a spirited, cheeky lad who had the look of a clever child. "Have you brothers, sisters, cousins?"

Tom shook his head. "No, it's only me."

"Then you know what that means," said Salazar, more by way of acknowledgement than question.

The boy shook his head again. "What does it mean?"

Salazar knew he ought not be surprised, since children in the past few generations tended to be ill-informed on any number of subjects, but _this_? A lad of his own lineage ignorant of his destiny? "It means you are the Heir of Slytherin."

Tom looked blankly back at him. He didn't want his ancestor to believe him incompetent or witless, but he honestly had no idea what the old wizard was talking about. "The what?"

Rolling his eyes dramatically, accompanied by a melodramatic sigh, Slytherin fixed his gaze on the boy. "What do parents teach their whelps these days? Sit down, make yourself comfortable. It seems I've a lot to clarify for you."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Sept. 30, 1938_

_ Ever since I arrived at Hogwarts I've been obsessed with finding out about my heritage. I've scoured the records of students and prefects, the trophy room, even books on wizarding history, all in hopes of discovering evidence of my father. I was sure he'd gone to school here as well, but if he did, someone was quite thorough in erasing his past. I've encountered not a scrap or name to indicate he ever walked these halls._

_ That left me no choice except to research the history of my mother's family. The only name I had to go on was 'Marvolo', my grandfather. Having already extensively studied the texts on wizarding families, it wasn't hard to go back and look again. I found the name Marvolo Gaunt, of the line of Salazar Slytherin, and he is the right age to be my grandfather. Since Marvolo is not a common name even for wizards, who frankly have some pretty outlandish monikers, and the Gaunt family are known parselmouths like me (a very rare gift), I am virtually certain my search has come to an end._

_ I feel strangely elated, yet apprehensive. I have waited so long to have a family, and now that I've found one, I'm not ready to go looking for him. My mother died right after my birth; does this man even know I exist? He'd receive quite a shock if I showed up on his doorstep, wouldn't he? On the one hand, he might be happy—on the other, he might reject me. No, I can't go looking, not yet. But what if he can tell me where to find my father? I'm interested to know why he didn't raise me after Mother died. Could he not find me, or did he not want me? I must think about it._

_ Today I met Salazar Slytherin—his portrait, that is. We had a nice chat, he's going to be my mentor._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 23, 2000**

When Bayly glanced up from the essay he was grading, he hadn't anticipated seeing Hagrid trudging in bringing gifts—well, carrying a sack of something, at any rate. "Hi, Hagrid. What have you got?" He came round the desk to greet the wizard.

"Professor Snape tol' me to give yeh these," answered the giant, hoisting the bag he carried with a lazy flip of his wrist. It sailed at the younger man, striking him in the gut with a thump when he caught it. "Sorry 'bout that, Bayly." Hagrid tapped the instructor's back by way of apology with his pan-sized hand, making Bayly wince and hunch his shoulders.

"Thanks. Did Professor Snape say what it's for?"

"He's on his way," answered Hagrid evasively. "Reckon he'll explain. See yeh later then." He scurried out with an agility heretofore not associated with his massive bulk. If anyone was to be blamed for what had happened to those birds, it wasn't going to be him!

Severus passed Hagrid hastening away as he joined Bayly in the Potions lab, and just as Bayly was emptying the bag onto a table near the back wall. The birds tumbled onto the table, bounced stiffly, and lay still. O…kay. He'd thought it might be some exotic or just possibly _illegal_ potion ingredients. Not even close. What had never entered his mind was a flock of dead animals. Was Snape trying to tell him something?

He grimaced as he looked up at his mentor. "Dead birds? What's the occasion?"

"That is what we are going to ascertain," Severus answered, strolling to the table in a slow walk while simultaneously managing to make his outer robe billow magnificently. "Hagrid probably told you he found them around the lake under a tree."

"No, he didn't," Bayly said, relieved beyond measure and not really sure why. "We're going to determine how they died?"

"Precisely. Consider this your first exam on your journey to becoming a Potions master." He pulled up a stool and seated himself.

Bayly regarded him for a moment. "You're not joking."

"Why would I be joking?" asked Snape in his typical deadpan manner. "Any half-arsed Potions teacher can tell what a brew or spell will do; a large part of being an exemplary master is working _backward_ to a cause/effect relationship."

"Yes, sir." Bayly sat down across the table from Severus, feeling very nervous. If he'd simply been instructed to find the cause of death, he'd have methodically begun to do so. Knowing his hero was watching his every move with a critical eye gave him a jittery sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He reached for the sparrow, stopping himself only millimeters from the bird. If it were infected, he ought not be touching it with bare hands. From the wrist holster on his forearm, he popped his wand into his fingers and set to creating a protective bubble over the carcasses to keep from inhaling any dangerous substances. Next he performed a series of tests Professor Snape had taught him to diagnose illnesses and toxins; nothing came up amiss. Satisfied that they weren't doomed to a slow, painful death from a disease or contaminant, he picked up each animal in turn to manually examine them for signs of injury; again nothing.

"Whatever it is must be internal," Bayly said at last. He peeked at Severus for corroboration, then his gaze slid to the door where he thought he saw a shadow.

Snape nodded, allowing a hint of a smile. "Well done. Nice touch in using a protective spell to prevent inhaling pathogens. What do you do next?"

"Get them out of here," Bayly answered quietly, slipping off his stool and hurrying to the doorway where two first years stood unabashedly staring at the professors. "Therese, Jonathan, what are you doing creeping about here?"

Shocked and peeved at himself for not hearing the children approach, Snape twisted around to throw a you-are-not-supposed-to-be-here glower. Jonathan visibly shuddered and hunkered closer to the girl. Therese merely looked at the Headmaster without expression, then directed her attention to Bayly.

"Sorry if we're interrupting, Professor Young," said the girl. "We were discussing the essay you set for us. Jonathan says it's on the properties of Wolfsbane herb, but I think it's on how the properties of Wolfsbane relate to the potion we made."

"Same thing," interjected the boy. He consciously avoided looking Snape's way, lest the caustic wave travelling across the room engulf him.

"If it was, we could just copy the properties out of the book," Therese argued.

Bayly took each child by one shoulder to guide them into the hallway. "Therese is correct. Your assignment is to determine _which_ properties of Wolfsbane are useful in this potion, and how its addition affects the mix."

"Told you," Therese crowed, smirking at the boy.

"Run along, the Headmaster and I have got work to do," said Bayly distractedly. He watched the two walk off together, ducked into the room and closed the door, then spelled it with a double lock. Good thing the kids hadn't come a few minutes later, after he'd begun the dissection of the poor dead creatures; it wasn't a pretty sight for anyone, let alone children. "It's nice to see a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin as friends," he observed aloud.

"Indeed," Severus concurred. After the Battle of Hogwarts, the other Houses had shunned Slytherins more than ever, despite the fact that for two years the Sorting had been random—unlike this year, thanks to Minerva. "Your task, Mr. Young."

Bayly smiled. As a rule Professor Snape called students by their last names; ever since Snape had acknowledged his affection for Bayly as a son, he'd ceased calling him 'Mr. Young' in private. It seemed evident to the youth that he was now referring to Bayly's status as his apprentice, a position no one else had ever occupied, which made it all the more special.

"I'm coming, sir. I need to fetch my dissection kit." From a locked cabinet in the front of the room he withdrew a tray of gleaming instruments: scalpels, forceps, pins. He brought them to the table, _accio_'d some towels and a dissection tray from on top of the tall side cabinets.

Within a few minutes he'd pinned down the robin and slit it from gullet to stomach, carefully cutting along the esophagus and prying it open for examination, along with the windpipe. "It doesn't appear to have choked or swallowed anything unusual," he said as he sifted the contents of the stomach.

Severus continued to observe him, speaking as little as possible to avoid giving him hints or distracting him, though his own sharp eyes followed every move. He anticipated each new step as the one he'd have made himself, and fully expected Bayly to turn his attention to the bird's chest cavity when he did. Severus saw the problem the instant his eyes lit there.

Bayly poked briefly at the lungs with a tiny wooden spatula, then his eyes fell on the heart. He set down the spatula to take the small muscle between two fingers, and he cocked his head as he frowned. "Professor, there's a hole in the left ventricle. It looks like the heart…I'm not sure…like it exploded. But there's not much blood in the chest cavity."

Severus nodded again, pleased at his apprentice's verdict. He'd noticed it straightaway, and not with any joy. He knew a spell to stop a beating heart, and he knew another to explode a heart, and both had come from very dark sources. This resembled far too closely for comfort the second curse. "You're right, Bayly, that is how the bird died."

All at once Bayly jerked his head up. "Sir, you didn't—" It wasn't necessary to finish, not that he could have forced the words out if he tried.

As if reading his mind and sensing the horror behind it, Severus replied, "No, I didn't do it. But someone familiar with the Dark Arts did. I'm only glad it wasn't _avada kedavra_."

"So we know a witch or wizard is responsible," Bayly summed it up, feeling slightly ill. "I don't think it's a teacher, and unless someone sneaked onto Hogwarts grounds, that leaves the students."

"That leaves the students," Severus echoed solemnly. He couldn't possibly question them all, nor could he ask them to spy on one another unless he was prepared to deal with a multitude of angry duels and he said/she said accusations that would likely drive him to a murder-suicide pact before it was all over. "For now, I'll alert the professors to be vigilant and to keep an eye out for any strange behaviour. We can hope this is a one-time occurrence."

A world weary sneer crept over his features. One-time occurrence…fat chance. He wasn't that lucky.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 25, 2000**

"Love, I thought you'd decided against hosting a Halloween Ball." Lucius picked up a lavender coloured envelope from Narcissa's desk; before it got to his nose, the scent of lavender flower wafted up.

Narcissa smiled up as him as she cheerily placed an invitation into another envelope. "No, darling, _you_ decided not to host one. I want something to do besides taking care of babies all day. Heavens, sometimes I find myself talking to other people like they're a year old."

"If you insist on putting on this party, at least let the house elves do the menial tasks like _this_." Lucius flipped the parchment from his fingers and it landed on his wife's forearm.

"I happen to enjoy keeping busy," retorted the witch, snatching the envelope and ramming an invitation into it. "It wouldn't kill you to help me, would it?"

Lucius smirked as he removed his wand from his pocket. "I don't think it will. Allow me."

"Oh no!" Narcissa smacked his hand and flung herself over the table on top of the stationery. "Doing it manually is therapeutic."

"For one with arthritis, perhaps," drawled the wizard, looking for an opportunity to cast a spell without hitting her. "Why are you being so obstinate?"

"Is it a crime to want to spend quality time with my husband?" she shot back. "Now sit down and get to work, Mr. Malfoy!"

Lucius meekly _accio_'d a chair and slid into it, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He loved his wife's spirit, her strength—and yes, her occasionally dominating manner. Especially in the bedroom. "I can think of better ways to spend quality time, my beloved."

Her blue eyes hungrily raked him up and down until he truly felt as if she'd been running her lovely, perfectly manicured hands over all the right places. "When we're done here, maybe I'll consider it," she crooned.

"I anxiously await your verdict," he breathed. He found himself robotically stuffing the envelopes, his mind too preoccupied with the near future to think of anything else.

Narcissa picked up her quill, dipped it in the deep purple ink, and wrote on one envelope, 'Mr. Severus Snape and Mrs. Aline Snape'. She set it aside to dry and settled another in front of her.

"Why don't you address it to Mr. and Mrs. Severus Snape?" asked Lucius, looking over from his task.

"Because Aline has a name; she doesn't belong to Severus, and she isn't _named_ Severus," responded Narcissa, giving him the I-dare-you-to-contradict-me expression.

Lucius wisely refrained from saying anything at all. He'd always assumed Narcissa liked being called Mrs. Lucius Malfoy—who wouldn't? Then again, would _he_ fancy being Mr. Narcissa of any surname? Probably not. He noted she'd completed the invitation for Jacinta and was starting one for Theo.

"Make sure in the Nott family invitation you remind Udo to use a glamour charm," he said, before really reading the card in front of his face: Costume Ball. "Never mind."

Continuing to write, Narcissa said offhandedly, "I'm not really surprised about Theo—you know, what you told me of his rancor toward George Weasley. I've had my suspicions about that Weasley boy since I saw him trying to cozy up to Jacinta at her workplace, when I stopped in to invite her to Severus' welcome back party."

"A Weasley was coming on to Jacinta?" exclaimed Draco, storming into the room. "Did she blast him? Does Severus know?"

"Looks that way, no, and no," answered Lucius, followed immediately by, "And you are not to tell him. After all he's been through, the last thing he needs is a lengthy stay in Azkaban."

"What your father is saying is that we think it best not to spread the word around," said Narcissa with a slight edge in her voice, a tone the men in her life had come to know and respect. "Where are you going, son?"

Draco halted in front of the desk to catch a glimpse of their activity. He knew better than to taunt his father for stuffing envelopes like a house elf; besides, the man actually seemed to be enjoying it…well, he wasn't sulking or moping. That was saying something. Maybe Mother had Imperiused him. He ducked his head and grinned to himself. "I'm taking Astoria to lunch, then shopping at the magical instrument store in Diagon Alley. I think she wants to get me a violin that plays music she sets for it."

"Make sure to act surprised," said Lucius, scarcely listening.

"She wants you to think of her while she's gone on concert tour in Belgium," Narcissa advised him, giving a knowing smile. "A shrewd girl."

"Yes, she is," agreed Draco. He leaned down to kiss his mother on the cheek. "We may stop for ice cream as well, then go for a walk, so I may not be home till dinner. I'll see you both later."

"Goodbye, sweetie. Take care, and if your head starts to hurt from apparating, you inform Dr. Livingston right away." Narcissa pulled him down again to kiss him in return. "Have a good time."

"If things are going well, bring her home for dinner," offered Lucius. "She is, after all, going to be part of the family."

"We don't know that," Draco said, puckering his brow.

Lucius and Narcissa merely looked at each other and burst into laughter, driving Draco stomping from the room. Narcissa took her husband's hand and gazed lovingly upon him. "Were we ever so blind to our own affections?"

"No, darling. I knew from the time I was sixteen that you were the one for me." He clasped her hand tenderly, giving it loving strokes on the smooth, soft skin. He leaned in close to breathe in her ear, "And you instantly fell for my boyish charm, as I recall. Would you like to recapture a bit of the magic on the flokati next to the fireplace?"

Narcissa paused, pursed her lips, and regarded him for a full minute. While certainly no longer boyish, he still exuded a powerful charm, and he was oh, so handsome…and sexy. Definitely sexy. "Alright, you win—but afterward we finish these invitations!"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**Afternoon of October 25, 2000; Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Diagon Alley**

Draco glanced away from Tori's captivating violet eyes at a flash of orange in his line of sight. Ugh! The Weasley troll his parents had been talking about! On instinct his head swiveled about for the rest of the redheaded army, but there were none. Charlie was the only one of the bunch he could marginally stomach, and outside of work they had no compelling reason to mingle. He'd just begun to answer Tori's question when Blaise strolled through the door; his eye caught Zabini's, and the young man headed their way.

Zabini ambled across the parlour, deliberately ramming a shoulder into George, who was waiting in line at the counter. "Watch where you're going, weasel," he snapped.

Utilizing massive restraint, George kept from flattening the other wizard on the floor. "You ran into me, big mouth."

Blaise stared back at him through hooded eyes, which hadn't failed to notice the festive orange bow tie decorated with tiny black bats worn by his nemesis. "Nice tie. Do you pay people to take them off your hands in your crappy little shop?"

Gritting his teeth, George replied evenly, "Here's a thought: stay out of my 'crappy little shop' if you know what's good for you."

"Ooh, I'm trembling," said Blaise, looking bored.

"Bugger off, shite-meister," growled George. He pushed past Blaise and walked out of the ice cream parlour.

Zabini smiled innocently and shrugged before making his way to the table where Draco and Tori were cuddled together. "Hello, folks."

The pair greeted him in return, and Draco asked, "Were you picking a fight with Weasley? Not that I'd blame you, mind you."

"Nah, just tokens of love," Blaise responded. "Speaking of which, it appears you two are back together. Congratulations. I haven't seen Daphne recently to hear the latest scoop, she's too busy with that blood traitor boyfriend of hers."

"We only barely got back together," said Astoria as she patted Draco's thigh, making him tense up; he wasn't used to being touched in that way, and he so loved this particular touch. "We'd kind of like to be alone."

Zabini turned to Draco for confirmation, as if stunned that anyone would shun his company in favour of another. Draco nodded almost imperceptibly. Blaise's lips drew together in a pout. "I can take a hint, especially when it's clear cut, no room for misinterpretation. All you have to do is say so."

"We're saying so," Draco responded. "And technically, if we have to be crystal clear, it isn't much of a hint. I'll talk to you later."

"Tori, you spend too much time with Daphne," Blaise mused aloud. "You both cut to the chase and speak your mind." He backed up and gave a small bow that had to be construed as mocking. "Laters." With that he wheeled on the spot and walked out.

"That's odd; he didn't even buy ice cream," remarked Astoria.

"Maybe we hurt his feelings," said Draco dryly. Hurting Zabini's feelings would take a lot more than a tactful 'go away', he was sure of that. His lips brushed her cheek. "Forget him. Let's go for a walk in that park you like."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Jacinta was leaving work when Blaise plowed down Diagon Alley and nearly bumped into her as he hustled along muttering to himself. Ordinarily she'd have stepped aside and let him go; his self-proclaimed scintillating wit got on her nerves. However, this wasn't an ordinary time, and offered a perfect chance to seize the bloke for questioning.

She stuck out her foot, tripping him. He stumbled but regained footing in lieu of tumbling to the ground. "Oh, so sorry. Are you alright?" she gushed.

Blaise quickly righted himself, automatically brushing down his robes and straightening his collar. "Fine, thank you. I guess I wasn't looking where I was going."

"I'm glad I ran into you, actually," Jacinta said, easing back into the portrait studio, knowing Blaise's curiosity would compel him to find out why she was so glad, it being an unusual sentiment where he was concerned. For Jacinta to be thankful to see him, there had to be a mighty good reason.

Sure enough, Blaise trailed after her like a kitten on the trail of an errant mouse. "Are you feeling well? Or is there something in here you wanted to show me?"

The door banged shut behind him, and Jacinta whirled to face him. "No. I want to ask you about Theo." She could virtually see his mind snapping shut against a Legilimens attack, which she thought humorous since she had not inherited her father's ability in that area. "He seems to be spending a lot of time with you lately. What's the deal with you and him?"

"You see, he's my cousin. I know we don't favour one another—"

"Cut the crap, Blaise." So much for strategically eliciting information; she may not have inherited Severus' talent for mind reading, but she had inherited Glenna's no nonsense, formidable personality. "Are you trying to break us up again?"

One of Blaise's hands flew to his heart, and he gasped, "I am truly wounded. I thought you knew me better." He shook his head, looking blatantly offended.

Jacinta hesitated, warily scrutinizing the man. When she'd begun dating Theo, Zabini had made it a priority to fill Theo's head with anything he could think up to make his cousin back off and reconsider…but he hadn't been sneaky about it, he'd been astonishingly forthright. If he were attempting sabotage now, why do it after almost two years? What did he stand to gain from it, except Theo's hostility and enduring animosity from a Snape? And to be honest, Blaise wasn't known for his ability to lie effortlessly—well, yes he was, but she could easily read it in his face. Right now, she saw no deception, at least not concerning her relationship to Theo.

"He's acting jumpy and preoccupied," she said at last. "Do you know why?"

"That's hardly my fault," he answered with a bright smile—too bright. Somehow, she doubted he had nothing to do with it. "Let's just say he's working on a project. And it's a secret, so don't tell him I said anything."

Again she detected no bald-faced lie. "A secret? Does it have anything to do with me?"

"It has everything to do with you," Blaise responded smoothly, winking. "Well, I've got to get going. Ta!" He darted out the door, his heart racing. Dammit, now he had to find Theo and tell him to produce a mind-blowing secret surprise out of thin air! He'd be lucky if Theo didn't kick his arse for setting Jacinta up like that.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I have the perfect solution: I'll ask her to marry me," said Theo. He turned away from the mantle where he'd been studying the portraits of his grandparents, to see Blaise looking absolutely horrified.

Blaise snorted in disgust. "I don't think she expects that much."

"So?" Theo shrugged, jerking a thumb toward the staircase. "I bought a ring months ago, but I chickened out when she said something about liking her freedom. I still have it in my drawer."

"That doesn't mean you have to do something stupid just because you can!" exclaimed his cousin animatedly. "Tone it down a few notches. Take her to a special restaurant with flowers and champagne and all the trimmings—make some kind of wonderful date, but don't tie yourself down."

"Maybe I wanna be tied down," retorted Theo.

Blaise smirked as he said, "I'd be happy to provide the ropes. I didn't know you two were into that sort of thing."

"Pervert," said Theo, grinning. "Let me think on it, maybe I can come up with something less extreme. But if not, I'm gonna ask her. I've waited for so long already."

"It's your life," sighed Blaise, shaking his head. He meandered to the liquor cabinet in the corner and withdrew a bottle of firewhiskey. "Want some? It helps me think."


	43. Halloween Bashes

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 43 (Halloween Bashes)

**October 31, 1938**

Tom hadn't wanted to go to the Halloween Ball, which frankly he considered a boring, tedious waste of time. He hadn't gone last year as a firstie, and he'd had no intention of going this year; however, since he'd gathered to himself a group of 'friends' who desired to frolic among the girls, he allowed himself to be persuaded…with one little catch. The muggles had a custom of trick-or-treating, wherein they extorted candy and fruit from neighbors; in honor of his inauspicious upbringing, the Slytherin troupe would pull a special Halloween _trick_ that would be remembered for years to come. At least it would make it worth his while to attend this insipid gathering.

Nott casually ambled to the table holding the punch bowl, Mulciber and Lestrange flanking him and keeping lookout as he slipped a vial from his pocket, poured it in, and kept walking with scarcely a break. The three met Tom in a far corner from where they planned to watch the events, though to be fair the former three preferred to keep an eye on the female population as well, watching the older boys and girls dance and the younger ones gazing longingly at one another, unsure and awkward about how to proceed.

They hadn't long to wait for entertainment to ensue. The potion Nott had dumped in the liquid was of the quick acting variety; by the time several students had drunk from the spiked beverage, the effects were evident. One boy was literally flying overhead, and several others were bouncing up and down in tremendous leaps that spanned two meters tall. Naturally, this led to an all-out rush on the punch by the rest of the students eager to experience the same.

Tom watched the scene gleefully, knowing what was going to happen and excited by the fact that no one else seemed privy to that information. Sure, they were having fun now; what the brats had not anticipated, of course, was that once the punch wore off, so would the super-effects. Before long, a professor had determined the cause of the disturbance and banned the substance, but it was too late for those already under the influence.

One by one the potion wore off as quickly as it had begun, and the children began dropping like flies from the air. Two boys, sailing near the ceiling, came crashing to the floor in heaps, to lie still. Others lost their enhancement mid-jump and fell to the stone floor screaming and wailing as limbs twisted and broke. Like the rest of the spectators, Tom was careful to radiate a feeling of horror and fear, though close inspection might indicate he seemed overly interested in seeing the suffering. Indeed it should, for inside he was dancing for joy. This party hadn't been so bad after all.

_Oct. 31, 1938_

_ The Ball was magnificent. And to think, I hadn't wanted to go. Three students ended up in the hospital, and a score of others suffered various injuries. They can't prove I or my comrades were involved, which makes it all the better. Sadly, next year—for any party from now on, I suppose—they'll be extra diligent. At least I have this to remember._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**October 31, 2000**

This year the Malfoy event promised to be spectacular—as usual—in addition to being a costume ball, which was highly _un_usual. Lucius stepped out of his closet and did a dramatic twirl on the carpet for his wife. "How do I look?"

Narcissa gawped at the wizard, who was clad in a seafoam green, 1970s leisure suit with a brown paisley, tab collar shirt under the long polyester jacket. He sported brown loafers with tassels on his feet. "Oh, darling, you're positively frightful!"

Smirking, Lucius replied, "That is the general objective when dressing as a muggle."

Narcissa twisted her mouth a bit. "Yes, but this—this _thing_—doesn't flatter you at all; the color is unbecoming. Don't even get me started on the lines and woebegone style. Don't take this the wrong way, but you look dreadful. It makes you look like a lizard."

Offended, the man drew himself up straight and snapped back, "How precisely is the _right_ way to take that?"

Narcissa crossed the room and tried to hug him while he backed up toward the closet. "You know you're my handsome love. It's the clothing that I don't care for."

"Don't try to get amorous now," he clipped, crossing his arms and sulking. "I'm not taking it off so you can ogle my naked flesh. Speaking of which, what about you?" His grey eyes scrutinized her intently, taking in the skin tight, black leather capris and white tube top decorated with tiny yellow and orange flowers. "Is this underwear? If so, it's admittedly quite sensuous…where is the rest of your costume?"

She looked down at herself and shrugged. "This is it."

"Oh, no! Absolutely not!" Lucius' fiercely protective side had taken over in an instant. "I will not permit my wife to gallivant about a roomful of salacious men dressed like a…a harlot!"

The witch gasped and drew back as if struck. "How dare you call me that!"

"I didn't call you anything," he said slowly, plainly. "I said your garments belong on a muggle streetwalker, and I will not tolerate it."

It was Narcissa's turn to pout. "You're just being mean because I'm not keen on your outfit. I'll wear whatever I please, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius sighed to himself as he drummed his fingers on the door frame of the closet. If he protested too much, she'd wear it to spite him, thus embarrassing them both. He would not forcibly stop her, although allowing her to make such a spectacle would cause talk for years to come. "You are a lady, Narcissa…my lady. The thought of other men gawking at you in the way only I have the right to do, the thought that you'd invite them to think so crassly of you, sickens me. I can't believe you'd encourage that."

Relenting, Narcissa advanced to embrace him, then pulled away as the cheap polyester material chafed her cheek. "I do think it's too skimpy. I'll find something else—something for both of us. This is our party, we need first-rate attire."

Smiling now, he pulled her back into his arms. "Perhaps you could hang on to that outfit for our private enjoyment…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Severus, where's your costume?" Aline walked into the living room wearing a ginger ballgown with a wide hoop skirt, reminiscent of those used in an earlier era, her brown hair drawn up into a loose bun, tendrils hanging down in ringlets.

"I'm wearing it," he answered, standing up to show her.

It consisted of black boots and trousers; overtop was a black jacket that came to the knees, tucked in at the waist and flared slightly below it. Black, suspiciously shiny buttons ran the length of the coat. She eyed him up and down. "What are you supposed to be?"

"A Potions master," he said, smirking.

"Wow, way to push the envelope," she said dryly.

Severus grinned and bent in to kiss her cheek. "Strictly speaking, I'm dressed as Dimitar Tanassov, so that would make me a Medical and Defensive Magic teacher, or whatever his title was before he was Headmaster of Durmstrang."

"Again, a real stretch," Aline answered, struggling to maintain a straight face. "Yet somehow you manage to pull it off. Astounding."

"That's why you love me," he said trying to get near enough around her skirt to hug her, and not having much success. "What ever possessed people to wear such asinine garments? Can you even sit down?"

"Not really," she admitted. "Unless I want my pantalets—that's knickers to you— showing for the world when the hoop slaps me in the face."

"That sounds like something to look forward to," he said, brushing down his jacket. "Are the children ready?"

"Indeed they are." Aline trotted out of the room—impressive in that getup—with Severus on her heels all the way to the nursery, where the boys lay in their crib, babbling incoherently to each other. They were dressed in long white trousers, orange shirts, and black bow ties and suspenders. On their heads were striped beanie caps.

Severus paused to take it in. He was used to identical twins dressing alike, though Aline rarely clad their boys that way, as she insisted their individual personalities must be nurtured. The costumes gave him an odd feeling…like he ought to know this. Yes, there it was! "Tweedledee and Tweedledum?" he asked, brows raised.

"Yes!" Aline exclaimed, laughing and clapping. "Aren't they adorable?" She scooped up Aidan from his crib to kiss him roundly, then did the same for Adriel. The babies cooed and giggled, and flailed their limbs.

"Actually, they are," Severus agreed, nestling Aidan in his arm. He never thought he'd see the day when he'd use the word 'adorable' in the same sentence with the fictional twins; till he met Aline, he never thought he'd do a lot of things, including dressing up for a costume party. He had to say, he didn't regret any of it. "Before we go I'd like to get some pictures. One day we may need to blackmail our sons."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The Malfoy ball was well under way when Bayly and Gloria arrived, only half an hour after the stated begin time. As expected, the ballroom was gloriously decked out in black and orange decorations, moving picture cloths on the small round tables lining the sides of the room, creepy lifelike figures floating like bodily ghosts high in the air. The pair adjusted their lederhosen and German feathered caps before going in.

"Would Mister Bayly and Miss Gloria likes some drinks?" squeaked Sisidy, holding up a tray of beverages.

"Can you put some beer in these?" asked Gloria, producing two large bier steins and setting them on the nearest table.

"Whatever Miss wants," chirped the elf, scampering away to find a pitcher of beer.

"Bayly!" A blond woman in a bright red, 1920s fringed flapper dress flagged them down and set off across the room in their direction, hauling an American-type gangster on her arm. "I'm so glad to see you came, honey," she said, embracing Bayly and kissing his cheek, then doing the same to Gloria. Her long beaded necklace swished gently, audible over the mellow music the band was playing.

"Hi, Mum," Bayly answered, self-consciously returning a peck on her cheek. At home he didn't mind, but in front of Jorab he felt strange. "Hello, Jorab."

"Hi, Bayly. Hi, Gloria," said Rabby. Evidently he still didn't feel any too comfortable himself with Liv's son in the picture. "How are things going for you both?"

"Good," answered Bayly, tongue-tied. He didn't get it; he didn't resent Jorab anymore. In fact, he kind of _liked_ Jorab, he respected the work he did, he trusted him now to take care of Mum…so what was the problem? Why couldn't he cut the bloke a break and stop reverting to a twelve-year-old whenever he was around?

Gloria stepped in, squeezing her husband's hand and explaining, "What Bayly means is his job is going wonderfully. Professor Snape has begun testing him for his Potions master exam, and his classes are going great."

"I can say it, dear," Bayly managed, blushing. "What about you, Jorab? Is everything alright at the clinic?"

"Yes, fine." Rabby looked down at Livonia and smiled tenderly. "We'll let you two get settled. I guess we'll see you on the dance floor." With that he led the woman onto the floor as a ballad began to play.

Gloria watched them for a minute before saying, "I think they make a sweet couple. Your mum looks so happy with him."

Bayly's line of sight followed hers, and he silently observed the couple dancing much more closely than he thought discreet. Hell, they were practically glued together at the chest…and hip…and lower regions. A sinking, sick sensation washed over him. "Do you think they started having sex?" he blurted.

Gloria continued to stare, then looked to Bayly with a light shrug. "I don't know. It seems like they might have. Why, does it bother you?"

"Yes!" he snapped. "Sorry. I mean, I know it shouldn't, it's Mum's life and I want her to be happy. And she was screwing my father without benefit of marriage, so I ought to expect—"

"Stop it. It's not very kind to talk that way about your own mother."

Bayly ignored her reproach. "Do you ever think of your parents having sex? It's weird, like parents shouldn't…I don't know. Dolohov was a bastard, so just having him around was awful. Jorab is good to her and to me, so I shouldn't begrudge them. Let's not talk about it."

"You brought it up," she reminded him with a smile. She reached out to him and he took her hand. "Let's go dance. This is a party!"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Unlike his father, Draco liked parties…but not this one. Tomorrow Astoria would be leaving on tour again, and he himself would he headed to Bulgaria shortly. All he wanted to do was spend his last moments with his girlfriend without the rest of the world privy to their interaction. Not that he'd even consider anything inappropriate—he'd been taught better than that—but he'd simply like to snuggle on a couch beside her, or spoon on his bed (fully clothed, of course), neither option being viable right now. So he made the best of it, keeping her by his side as he socialized.

He looked up at an approaching figure clad in a long, black, hooded robe, and a white skull face so eerily similar to a Death Eater mask it sent a chill down his spine. The figure greeted him with, "Hey, Draco, Tori. Anything good happening?"

"Shit, Blaise!" Draco said in exasperation, heaving a relieved breath. "Why are you dressed like that? Do you know how many people here used to be Death Eaters?"

Blaise cocked his head and spread his arms out, one of his hands clutching a full-sized, actual scythe. "What? I'm not a Death Eater, I'm _Death_. There's a difference. And let's face it, you're way more scary than I am." He indicated the outfit Draco had on: a seafoam green leisure suit with a paisley brown shirt, and tasseled brown loafers.

Draco chuckled. "My dad was going to wear it, but my mother had a fit, so they decided to come as an Asian Emperor and Empress." He made a vague motion toward the front of the ballroom where his parents were chatting with Udo and Fidelia Nott, both wearing gaudy clown outfits, wigs, and makeup to effectively hide their identity; Missy was nowhere in sight, having been escorted to the playroom with the rest of the children, to be tended by hired help after parading them through the room to be admired. In contrast to the Notts' garish attire, the Malfoys looked exquisitely and fittingly dignified, regal, and utterly gorgeous in their fine blue silk robes. "I sneaked this out of the rubbish bin when they weren't looking."

"It is pretty awful," Astoria concurred, clucking her tongue at the hideous costume on her boyfriend.

"And an ax murderer is sweet and cuddly, right?" asked Draco.

Astoria blushed under the blood-like makeup spattering her face, hands, and pinafore dress. "You were supposed to come as my victim. Now I just look crazy."

The young men laughed. "I wouldn't blame you for killing him if he dressed that way on a regular basis," Blaise crowed. He waved his scythe in the air at a couple in pirate garb, complete with swashbuckling swords strapped to their hips. "Yo, Theo! Over here!"

"As if he can hear you over the music," Astoria said, shaking her head. However, Theo had seen his cousin and headed their way, dragging Jacinta by the hand.

Theo arrived breathless, his eyes shining with a light not related to the consumption of alcohol—which he'd not yet begun, and dared not go overboard with his family across the ballroom. "You're not going to believe who I saw not ten seconds ago: George Weasley and a bunch of that redheaded crew, along with the wizarding world's saviour. What are they doing here?"

"For manner's sake, Mother sent invitations to friends, but anyone donating fifty galleons or more can come," said Draco, shrugging. "It's supposed to keep out the riffraff."

"Good job," said Blaise sarcastically. "On the plus side, half the people here want to see Potter, so that brings up the number of donations."

"He probably paid the Weasleys' way out of spite," added Theo, frowning in their general direction. Of all the people he'd not expected to encounter, George Weasley topped the list. Seriously, who'd think he'd show up at the charity ball of one of his enemies?

"Theo, give it a rest," said Jacinta. She sipped at the cup of punch she picked up off the tray offered by Sisidy. "I'm sure they won't bother anyone. I'm tempted to go speak to Harry again. He seemed likable enough that one time when I met him."

The entire group gaped at her as if she'd grown a second head—nay, a third head. Then, out of the blue, Theo said, "Alright, Cinta. Go talk to him, I'll wait for you here."

Jacinta smiled, at first suspiciously, then from genuine pleasure. She knew Theo didn't like Potter, and from everything she knew about their school days, she couldn't blame Draco for hating him…and being jealous of him. It was mature of her boyfriend not to oppose her when she suggested playing nice with the adversary. "I wonder if he remembers me?"

"You're not easy to forget, darling," Theo crooned in her ear, making her smile even wider. The scarf tied round his head tickled her cheek.

"I'll be back soon." She kissed him on the lips and began parting the crowd to find Harry.

"Draco, why don't you and Tori have a dance, it's a slow one," said Theo, winking at his friend. "Blaise and I can entertain ourselves for a while."

"Don't mind if I do," answered Draco, offering his hand to his lady. In short order they'd got out of earshot and were cozying up to each other on the dance floor, swaying in unison.

Theo dragged Blaise over next to the wall, away from prying ears, and said hurriedly, "This is our chance. We've been scoping out Weasley for months—"

"It hasn't been that long at all," objected Zabini.

Theo made a shushing signal. "Maybe it just feels like it. Anyway, we don't even have to set the prat up; if you can make him mad enough to hex you now, Jacinta will see it and she'll know what kind of jerk he is."

"Good idea," Blaise said unenthusiastically. It had been fun getting on Weasley's nerves, insulting him, making him hate the sight of Zabini approaching…it wasn't going to be so fun if the prick starting throwing curses. "Let's rethink our strategy, shall we?"

Theo glowered at him. "This was your idea, and you started it, so you're going to play along. I need that bastard out of Jacinta's life!" He got in close so his face was almost against the hideous mask. "And may I remind you, she's still waiting for me to make some grand gesture toward her, thanks to you. She hasn't said anything, but I can see it in her eyes, and if I don't come up with something soon, it's proposal time."

"Sorry about that," Blaise mumbled.

To be honest, though Theo wouldn't say so to Blaise, he wasn't sorry, not really. He wanted to marry Jacinta, and the only thing holding him back from asking her was fear of rejection. She'd been very blunt about not feeling ready to be married a year ago when he broached the subject. He took his cousin by the shoulders, spun him round, and gave him a shove in the direction of the Weasley bunch. "They're beginning to scatter. Get over there and make trouble!"

Scowling under his mask, Blaise traipsed across the floor, stopping long enough to grab two glasses of firewhiskey from Cinchona's tray and gulp them down, then exhale long and hard as the liquor burned its way down to his stomach. Better. Soon he'd have a pleasant buzz and feel invincible, the easier to wade into a perilous situation. He waited till he felt a lightness in his head and a giddiness that made him laugh out loud for no apparent reason. It was time.

Harry and Ginny, a pair of gypsies, had meandered away from the Weasley clan and were conversing amiably with Jacinta. Around them, several people flashed repeated glances at Harry as if awaiting their turn at his side. Blaise grimaced beneath the skull mask hiding his face. What did they see in Potter anyway? A self-important creep who happened to luck out and not get killed by the dark lord, who—let's be honest—had not exactly been overly logical in his murderous plans.

"Ballsy choice of costume, considering the venue," said Blaise, wandering up behind George, who was standing next to Percy and some people Blaise didn't recognize. He poked the redhead in the side with the tip of his scythe.

George whirled on him. He recognized that grating voice! "What do you want, you git?"

Blaise shrugged, a lifting of the black shapelessness compromising his costume. "I don't want anything. Merely commenting on the appropriateness of wearing an Azkaban inmate uniform to a party whose host was once incarcerated there." He sighed loudly. "But then, what can one expect from culturally clueless individuals?"

"Look who's talking," George countered, gesturing grandly up and down at Zabini's black robe. "A Death Eater? Seriously, don't you have any couth at all?"

"I'm not a Death Eater, I'm _Death_!" Blaise shouted over the music, which at the moment was a lively polka. "What is wrong with you people?"

A swipe of George's wand and the scythe in Blaise's hand disappeared, to the latter's vocal protest. "Little boys shouldn't play with dangerous toys. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

"Give it back, Weasel-breath," demanded Blaise.

"That old thing? You might cut yourself, and wouldn't _that_ be a shame? I know just what you need." George instinctively glanced about for his twin, who'd always had his back…unless they were arguing with each other, which was rare. He smiled wickedly at Percy the Prude, who was shaking his head. "I've been inventing some new potions and charms, and they need quality testing before revealing them to the general population. How'd you like to help me out?"

"Give it to me!" Blaise ordered, stomping his foot and reaching for his wand up the sleeve of his robe.

"My pleasure," cooed George, aiming at the other man.

Blaise hadn't time to get his wand before the spell from George's wand struck him in the chest. He tottered briefly, stunned but not hurt. Then he felt it: a warm sensation oozing through his body, spreading from his chest to arms, legs, head. It was….nice, liberating. But really, really warm. Kind of like condensed, exaggerated alcohol effects.

"Why don't you dance, Zabini? I heard you're quite the stud muffin," George laughed.

"You heard right," Blaise confirmed, grinning and giggling as he started to shuffle his feet to the music.

Soon he was swaying in rhythm to the beat, right before he burst into a lone polka that put the couple dressed in lederhosen to shame. In a matter of seconds he was whirling around the ballroom floor, a sole force of nature twirling and hopping like a man possessed, bumping into other guests and hurrying off with mumbled apologies. When the tune came to an end and the couples began leaving the floor, Blaise halted suddenly and threw back his hood as he ripped off the mask. Sweat poured down his dark face.

"It's bloody hot in here," he observed to no one in particular, though he noticed a good deal of people watching him.

"Not as hot as that dance," George called, laughing so hard tears ran down his cheeks.

Then it happened. Blaise reached down, gripped the hem of his robe, and yanked it over his head, letting it drop on the floor beside him. Several women shrieked; virtually everyone within sight froze in shock, and a number of jaws nearly hit the floor.

"Better," he said as he wandered off the dance floor, the crowd parting before him. Aside from the leather sandals on his feet, he wore not a stitch of clothing.

Theo _accio_'d the robe (and the wand inside it) from the floor as he raced toward his cousin. He pushed his way through the throng, many of whom had no idea yet what was going on; as soon as he caught up with Blaise, he flung the cloak round his shoulders and tried to hustle him away, while the whispers all about him made his ears burn and his stomach tighten with rage.

"Theo, get off me," Blaise growled, struggling to be free. "What's your problem?"

"Come with me, we'll find a cool room," Theo choked out, his glare burning a hole in George. "We'll deal with him later."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"What did Weasley do to you?" Theo asked, guiding him to an exit which he knew led to a hall of guest rooms.

"I don't know, hit me with a spell and said I should dance," said Blaise, unconcerned.

Neither of them saw Jacinta rushing up to them from behind, nor when she stopped cold and spun on her heel to march back into the ballroom, her face set in determination and more than a little disgust.

By the time she got to the circle of Weasleys and their laughing cronies, she'd built up to a veritable fury, tamped down to the pit of her gut to allow her to act rationally. In a tone as civil as she could manage, she said, "George, did you have anything to do with Blaise's exhibition?"

"Brilliant choice of words, Jacinta," George chuckled, giving a light bow. "I did indeed. Knowing how you and Zabini aren't exactly best friends, I trust you enjoyed the show."

Jacinta used every ounce of strength she'd inherited from her father to keep from physically attacking him. How could he be so indifferent, so obtuse, so _cruel_? Surely he had heard the story of Severus Snape at the hands of the Marauders, the degradation wrought upon him for no other reason than he _existed_. Was that the mindset for the majority of Gryffindors—that it didn't matter who was hurt as long as it wasn't a friend? How could she ever think something meant to debase another was funny?

Slowly she shook her head, her body trembling. "I thought it was despicable. Did you Imperius him?"

"Of course not!" George answered, offended. "It was just a wee spell I was testing. Seems a bit stronger than I anticipated—but that's why we need to test. It'll wear off soon."

"And then he can experience the full effect of the humiliation, right?" she asked in a clipped voice. Jacinta got right up in his face. "What's the point of this spell? To make women strip for you? That's not only revolting, it's illegal!"

"Come on, Jacinta, you're blowing this out of proportion," George pleaded, making a grab for her arm, but she wrenched away. "It only makes the person warm…and maybe kind of uninhibited—well, how could I know he'd be naked under that robe? He was only supposed to dance like a fool, maybe take off some of his clothes before the charm wore off…" His self-dug hole was getting deeper by the minute.

"Sounds pretty dodgy to me, and you'll be lucky if he doesn't bring charges against you when he's in his right mind." She started to turn, then spun back. "Why did you pick him? Did he hurt you or steal from you or harm your family?"

"No," admitted the wizard. "But he's been a real pain in the arse lately, and it was a joke, a prank, nothing more."

"Ah. Now I know what to expect when someone annoys you." She backed up and turned once more.

"Jacinta—"

Twisting only her head toward him so he could hear her, she said, "Don't. I don't need bullies for friends."

With that she walked stiffly away, ignoring his calls after her. Across the room, entering with Aline and the children, she spied her father; once more the memory of his schoolboy torments raced to the forefront, juxtaposed against the recent disgrace of Blaise. Grateful that her father hadn't been here to witness it himself, she ran to him and threw herself against his chest beside her baby brother; Severus' free arm embraced her tightly as she began to weep.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It was time for the disclosure. Arm in arm Lucius and Narcissa ascended the steps to the balcony of the ballroom, and made their way to the front to address the guests. Lucius cleared his throat, then pulled his wand from his pocket and placed it at his throat to amplify his voice. "My esteemed guests, may I have your attention?"

The crowd walking and laughing and drinking below lifted their faces to the sound, and the cacophony died down. In the brief spot of silence, a lone voice shouted, "Wooo! Go, Lucius!" Lucius made a mental note to smack Regulus up next day. Did that boy never pass up an opportunity to get hammered? He _thought_ he'd been making progress.

"I promise not to be long-winded. I apologize for the immodest display witnessed by some of our guests earlier; apparently someone thought it would be appropriate to cast an anti-inhibition spell on another. In order to set your minds at ease, the offending parties have been expelled from our midst. Now on to the matter at hand. First of all, thank you for attending this year's Halloween Ball, which as you know is being held as a charity fund-raiser, the proceeds of which will go to the building of a new mental ward at St. Mungo's." He paused to allow polite cheers and clapping. "Narcissa and I have agreed to donate 100,000 galleons; our challenge to you was to match our amount."

"At which time we will pony up 250,000 galleons!" Narcissa interjected, flushed with excitement. She flashed a lovely smile at her husband, who winked back. Below, a few snickers were heard.

"My dear, if you will." Lucius handed her an envelope that Sisidy had given him a short time ago, after having added up the pledges collected from the guests.

Narcissa took the envelope, held it up for the assembly to see, and ever so slowly ripped the top off. Had she been wearing her previous costume, it could almost be interpreted as provocative. She withdrew the slip of parchment within, held it up as well, waved it for the people below, and opened it. Her smile wavered. "The pledge total is 95,000 galleons."

A collective moan ran through the throng, split by a strong voice overpowering them. "I will donate an additional 10,000 galleons."

The masses erupted in loud cheers that seemed to go on at length, while the people nearby congratulated the speaker, slapping him on the back and shaking his hand. Lucius scanned the crowd, searching until he singled out the benefactor. An incredulous expression was soon replaced by an unexpected delight. "Ladies and gentlemen, Jorab Goodman! Thank you, Jorab, the folks at the hospital will certainly appreciate your generosity." He led in another round of applause, then urged the people, "It looks like we've met our goal. Thank you all, and let's continue this celebration."

As he and Narcissa descended the steps, she leaned in close and whispered, "Do you think he did it to impress Livonia?"

Lucius shook his head, not breaking stride, his mouth set in a grim line as his eyes met the floor. "No. I've noticed a change in him lately. If I had to guess, I'd say it was guilt."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

More than an hour passed before the charm finally wore off and Blaise felt like himself again…himself being extremely uncomfortable and mortified at what he'd done. Not that he'd never been the center of attention, but he'd certainly never ripped off his robes and paraded starkers through a crowd. The very thought of facing any of those people again made his face hot. He sat up on the bed where Theo had warded a boundary to prevent him leaving the room and getting into more mischief.

"Thanks for getting me out of there," he murmured to his cousin, who currently paced by the window in the Malfoy guest room.

Theo spun round. "Are you okay now?"

"Yeah. I expected Weasley to curse me, not…that."

"It's my fault for pushing you to go piss him off," Theo said glumly.

"Phht," returned Blaise, shaking his head. "It was my idea, like you said. And he didn't hurt me. It's not your fault, so don't get all martyrish. Did it work?"

"Actually it did, better than we hoped," Theo answered. "Jacinta ripped into Weasley for what he did. Thanks for your suffering, cousin. I appreciate it."

Blaise shrugged. It was over and done, and no real harm had occurred. "My concern is what happens now? I mean, now that half the wizarding world has seen my bits, there's not much mystery left. I depend on that air of mystery to pick up birds."

Theo burst into an unintentional laugh. That was so like Blaise—what girls would think of him! "If it's any consolation, they were probably impressed."

A slow smile spread over Blaise's face. "Did Jacinta say so?"

"No, it's not her style to be talking about your bits," Theo said, still grinning. "Besides, I don't think she's got any frame of reference."

Intrigued and surprised, Blaise stammered, "You mean she's never seen your—you and her—I assumed—"

"We haven't gone that far, if that's what you're trying to spit out—not that I don't think of it constantly," said Theo dryly. "Look, I have to go, Cinta's waiting for me. She said to ask you…" Here he looked up into the air as if recalling the exact wording. "She said 'Do you have a death wish, or are you just stupid? And where the bloody hell were your pants?'"

Blaise laughed out loud again. "Tell her a little of both, and it was laundry day. And I like going free and loose. Amazing sensation."

"I'm not telling her that," Theo replied, relieved that all was well. "I'll say you're back to normal. The Malfoys will let you use their floo to go home, unless you want to rejoin the party."

"Nah. Home sounds pretty good about now. Later, Theo." He rolled over on the bed. Maybe he'd take a nap first; it had been an exciting, exhausting day.


	44. Proving Grounds

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 44 (Proving Grounds)

**November 1, 2000**

"Alright already, I'm coming!" Regulus stumbled into the doorway of his bedroom at the top of the stairs at Spinner's End, his longish hair disheveled, his garments rumpled from sleeping in them. He leaned there a moment, gathering his balance, while the pounding continued below. A few choice morsels inappropriate for young ears slipped from his lips as he wended his way down the staircase.

He flung open the door to Lucius Malfoy, who in contrast was impeccably dressed and groomed. The latter smiled tightly. "Oh, good. You're up."

Squinting against the rays of sunlight peeking through the doorway, Reg grumbled, "Lucius, do you have any idea what time it is?"

Lucius removed a gold pocket watch from his robes, pressed the button on top to release the catch, opened the cover, and announced, "It is 10:03 in the morning."

"That was a rhetorical question. Unless this is urgent, I'm going back to bed. I'm kinda tired."

"Really?" asked Malfoy in mock surprise. "Why might that be?" He pushed his way in and slammed the door with his foot. Regulus cringed at the sound.

"Do you mind? I've a headache." Reg headed for the couch, but Lucius grabbed his arm and swung him round. "Let me go."

"Let's get this over with, Regulus."

"G-get what over with? What's happened?"

Lucius' grey eyes bored into the younger man, making him wince from sheer intensity. That look never boded well. "I've been patient with you, more or less. I've given you the opportunity to tackle this problem on your own, but obviously that hasn't worked."

Reg blinked blearily. Had he missed something? They were discussing headaches, and something happening, and now Lucius thought he had a problem? He didn't recall saying anything of the sort. "What are we talking about?"

Ah, the pinched lip look…again, never a good sign. "Your. Drinking. Problem."

Regulus rolled his eyes. He'd have burst out laughing, but he thought he might vomit if he moved too much. "Merlin's beard, don't you ever get tired of harping on that? You're like a—a broken CD. No, a record. I think…CDs don't play if they're scratched, so—yes, definitely a record."

It was Lucius' turn to blink and wonder what he'd missed. "What?"

Enunciating carefully as Malfoy had done seconds earlier, he said, "I don't have a problem. I like to drink, and I excel at it."

Lucius slapped his face, and Reg fell back onto the sofa with a hurt expression. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have been quite so flippant. Lucius could be a mean son of a bitch when he was in a bad mood. "This is not a joke, Regulus!" Yep, he was in a bad mood now, if not before.

"What was that for?" asked Reg, leaning away and stroking the red mark on his cheek.

"You're acting like a fool, as well as destroying your health."

"What do you care?" He flinched as Lucius' hand twitched.

"My wife is your cousin; she worries about you," Lucius replied evenly.

Unable to stop his mouth from spewing out whatever nonsense his brain shoveled into it, Reg retorted, "Cissy worries. So why isn't she the one beating me?" He flinched again and pulled away when Lucius moved over to sit in the chair opposite him.

Malfoy sighed heavily, crossed his legs, and simply stared for a full minute at the lad before him. All those years ago he'd known Reg indulged too much; Orion had tried to put a stop to it when he knew, which wasn't nearly often enough. Then Reg died, and that had been the end of it…till he came back, bringing his old habits with him. If it were merely imbibing, that might not be so bad, but the kid didn't know when to stop—ever. He always drank to the point of inebriation. What was Lucius to do? He wasn't Regulus' father, nor even brother, though they did have an odd sort of relationship that way. His own idiot brother, Sirius, was no help at all. Did he even have a right to do anything? If he didn't, who would?

"If I were beating you, you'd know it, smartass," he said at last. His eyes roamed over the living room, so clean and cheerful and un-Snapelike he almost forgot where he was.

Regulus made no answer, he merely waited to see what Lucius was going to say. He wasn't up for another smack just yet.

"I'm not Orion, and I'm not trying to be. But as we discussed before, you are comparable to an annoying little brother, and as such I feel responsibility for you." There, he'd made his argument without admitting how he really felt. _Very clever, Malfoy_.

"If that means whipping me with that blasted cane of yours, no thanks," said Reg, scooting all the way to the end of the couch.

Lucius allowed a little smirk, which put the youth more at ease. "Although I won't completely rule out the possibility, it isn't what I have in mind at present. I came to tell you I'm willing to do whatever it takes to stop your drinking. I'll hire a healer, or send you to a counselor, or whatever you need."

"No offense, Lucius, but I don't need help. Who am I hurting?"

"Right now, mostly yourself," acknowledged Lucius with a shrug. It wasn't as if the kid were piloting one of those metal muggle monsters or anything, so he was unlikely to cause harm to others unless by starting a fight—which he had done in the past. "I'm thinking of your future. What if you get married and have children? Do you want to be a lush like Severus' father was? Would you abuse your wife or children because you couldn't stop yourself?"

"Of course not! That's barbaric!" Regulus answered hotly. In the back of his mind, though, he recalled things Severus had said when they were boys, like how he hated being at home. Did he want his kids hating their home? Or their father?

"Narcissa isn't the only one who cares about you. Nip it in the bud before things get too far out of control," Lucius said, almost pleading.

"It's not like I drink all the time, only socially…and sometimes by myself. If I wanted to quit, I would." Reg crossed his arms defiantly.

"Prove it. Prove that you _can_ quit."

Regulus hesitated, wondering if he dared reveal the notion that had come kicking and screaming into his brain as Lucius spoke. Alright, why not? It couldn't hurt to say it, right? Then again, it could hurt if Lucius whacked him upside the head, but he was willing to take the chance. "You don't want me to drink because _you_ worry about me, don't you?"

"Pht! No," answered Lucius, in the most blatant lie Reg had even caught him in. The only blatant one, actually, but it was so evident he'd have to be unconscious to miss it.

"You worry about me," Reg repeated, a smile spreading over his features. It felt good in a warmth-swelling-through-the-chest way. "You want me to quit because you looove me."

"Shut up," said Lucius in a tiny voice, averting his eyes.

"What are you gonna do? You don't wanna hurt me when you looove me," Regulus laughed, holding a pillow in front of himself for protection.

"I can see I'm just wasting my time. I don't know why I bother." Lucius stood abruptly and stomped toward the door. As his hand fell on the knob, Regulus called out to him and he halted, not quite sure why since he was relatively certain the brat only wanted to taunt him some more.

"I will prove to you I can quit, Lucius," Reg said solemnly, no trace of joking in his voice. "And I love you, too."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

May 22, 1946

"Tom! You've got a visitor." Mr. Burke lumbered into the back of the store where Tom was wrapping a selection of jewelry for a customer. He knocked on the wall to get the young man's attention.

Riddle raised his head in acknowledgement, then sent one last flick of his wand. The wrapping paper secured itself, and a ribbon flipped up the sides and tied into a neat bow on top. "I'll be right there, sir. Here's your purchase for Mr. Traddus."

"You've lifted the curse?" Although it came out as a question, the older wizard had enough faith in his employee to know it had been done, and done well. For barely more than a kid, this young man had exceptional talent.

Tom didn't bother to respond; he got up from the floor and walked into the front room, to where a teenager waited, rapping his fingers on the glass of the counter. Upon spying his old comrade, he immediately ceased his fiddling and straightened.

"Lord Voldemort, it's good to see you again," said Dolohov.

"Antonin."

The younger of the two reached into his pocket, but the hand of Riddle gripped his arm, stopping him. Tom peered over his shoulder, then made a miniscule gesture with his head toward the door, indicating they might be best served by conducting this affair in absolute privacy. Together they slipped out into Knockturn Alley; Tom led the way further in, turned a corner, and came to a halt against the side of a building. For good measure, he set a silencing charm over them. Once more he scoped the area to ascertain they were alone.

Only now did anticipation gleam in Tom's eyes. He wolfishly held out a hand, palm up. "You've got it."

Dolohov nodded and reached into his pocket once more. He withdrew a black velvet pouch, and with hands trembling from excitement pulled from it a long chain made of the finest golden links; at the end dangled a tiny, sparkling hourglass suspended in a golden circle. The two young men stood for a moment, staring at it in awe, then Dolohov held it out to Tom.

Almost reverently Riddle accepted the Time-Turner. He lifted it high to gaze at it from various angles, even as the voice from his comrade wormed into his brain, "It's broken, like I said. Maybe you can fix it."

Tom snapped back to reality. "Of course I can fix it."

Heavy, guilty pause as Dolohov shuffled the toe of his shoe in the dirt on the cobblestones. "I didn't know it was cursed, too."

Tom's head shot up, dark eyes boring into Dolohov's like daggers. "Cursed? Who said it is?"

"My father." Dolohov conveniently moved back one step. "I tried to bring it up casually, like you told me. I waited till he was drinking and in a good mood. He said it's been like that for generations—anyone who tries to use it dies." For good measure, he backed away another pace.

"Hmm." Riddle returned to scrutinizing the new toy. "I know how to lift most any curse. I'll figure it out."

"But…" Dolohov chewed on the edge of his lip. "If you try to use it and the evil charm isn't gone, it'll kill you."

"Then perhaps I'll have someone else test it in my stead," Tom growled, becoming annoyed.

"But…" The younger of the two fidgeted, his long, twisted face apparently studying something of great import on the ground. "I have to assume you mean someone you don't like will try it, just in case. If it _does_ work, that other person will be gone—with the Time-Turner."

"What are you afraid of? Killing an unworthy piece of scum, or losing the Time-Turner?" asked Tom, eyeing him closely until he squirmed.

"Losing the Time-Turner," admitted Dolohov softly. "My dad will beat me half to death if he discovers I stole it from him."

Tom shrugged one shoulder indifferently. "Then make sure he doesn't find out. I highly doubt he checks on its status nightly."

Dolohov let out a relieved grin. That was true. Dad hadn't even thought of it for ages, not till they discussed it and he showed it to his son. He wasn't likely to go looking for it. "You're right. He won't miss it. To be on the safe side, I could transfigure another item to look like it—it's not as if he'll try to make it work!" Here he laughed out loud.

Tom carefully slid the magical object into its bag and pocketed it. "I'll work on it in private. When I'm ready to experiment, you may be of assistance in finding me a test subject." Realizing that Dolohov was about to protest again, he said, "If I set the Time-Turner for only a few minutes back, the subject will still be in the room with us and can't escape. I'm not stupid."

"Lord Voldemort, I'd never suggest such a thing!" Dolohov gushed, surprisingly sincere. "I only meant—"

"Thank you for the item. I must get back to work." Tom nodded in dismissal, spun on his heel and walked back to the shop, smiling to himself, his mind whirling with possibilities.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

July 30, 1946

In an unused gardener's shed on a dilapidated property belonging to Dolohov's parents, a grizzled, glassy-eyed man in tattered clothing sat on the cold stone floor, rocking back and forth and hugging himself. Every now and again he muttered something incoherent, which the two young wizards with him ignored.

"I've made slight modifications," Tom was saying, motioning at the tiny hourglass. He neglected to mention that every effort at lifting the curse on the article had proven fruitless, inasmuch as he'd not detected any magical signature or release. If he'd been successful, he was unaware of it, but perhaps that is how this particular curse worked.

Dolohov sent a body-bind on the muggle, keeping him still as Tom placed the delicate gold chain around his neck. He turned the hourglass one time and stepped back. They looked around themselves, yet not only did the bum not disappear, another version of him did not appear anywhere else. He'd been kept in this room for well over an hour to make sure they didn't overshoot the time frame of half an hour…it had failed again.

Tom wrenched the chain off the man's neck as Dolohov kicked him in the side. The man toppled over, his lifeless eyes frozen on some spot no one else could see.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_July 30, 1946_

_ I__ can't do it. I've been toiling over this damnable device every spare moment for two months, and made not a bit of progress! I'm not even certain if I've repaired the physical damage. Since I have no clue what curse has been used—probably one invented by the curser himself—I've not been able to find a counter for it. I've even made up numerous countercurses of my own, to no avail. This is the third victim, and I can't even use them as fodder for making horcruxes because I didn't directly kill them! What a waste of time and energy._

_ To admit failure to my lesser sticks in my throat. At the same time, I have tri__ed everything I can conceive of: I have researched blood curses, family curses, ancestry curses, every type in every book I can lay my hands on; I have researched Time-Turners until I am sick of the word. I hesitate to release the object back to Dolohov, for one day I may come across the solution. It irritates me. I am the greatest wizard of my age—perhaps of any age—and a mere Time-Turner has me confounded. Pathetic. If only Time-Turners were easy to come by, but the blasted things are heinously rare and stringently controlled. _

"Well, well, well. Lord Voldemort admits he doesn't know everything." A sneer broke on Snape's face. To Severus' knowledge, Lord Voldemort had not possessed a Time-Turner, at least he'd never spoken of it…his lack of boasting could only mean he'd never been able to make it work. The thought gave Snape a good bit of joy—and relief. The havoc a maniac like Voldemort could wreak through time travel was horrifying. As neither he nor anyone else had discovered the object among the dark lord's belongings in the secret room of the castle, it seemed likely he'd either disposed of it or returned it to Dolohov long ago.

Speaking of time, he was late. He'd promised Bayly he'd observe his class this afternoon while the little darlings botched some potion or other. Not that Bayly would be broken up over his absence, of course, since the poor kid wanted so badly to please him and got so nervous when he knew he was being graded. More likely than not, Bayly would be happy if Snape didn't show at all.

As Severus stalked down the hall, his cloak billowing madly in his rush, he couldn't help but think of the diary entry, of Dolohov at only eighteen when he'd unapologetically helped Tom Riddle murder those 'test subjects'. Bayly was nineteen now, yet so far removed from his 'father' in every way—personality, appearance, morality; thank God that Dolohov had been in prison most of the boy's life, that Bayly had not been poisoned by being raised by that perverted psychopath. In fact, one would be hard pressed to believe this was Dolohov's son at all.

Severus smiled even as he thought, '_F—k you, Dolohov, he's __my__ son now.'_

He opened the door to the Potions lab and entered with another grand billowing of his robe that made the students in the nearest row gasp. Bayly looked up from the cauldron at the front of the room where he was demonstrating how to add the bile of armadillo with an eyedropper.

"Headmaster, I see you made it." He didn't sound particularly happy about it. "Students, Professor Snape is going to observe our class. Be on your best behaviour." _And for the love of God, don't make any foolish mistakes that will get you shouted at or get me in trouble._

Severus strode up the center aisle, blank faced, conscious of the eyes upon him and loving the fear behind them. It was a group of Ravenclaw and Slytherin firsties, who'd never had him for a teacher, but had undoubtedly heard of him from the older children in their Houses. As per his decree early on as Headmaster, Houses took classes with those of other Houses on a rotating basis to ensure they all got to know one another.

He gazed down into the potion, wafting the odor to himself with one hand, and took a small sniff. "Wit-Sharpening Potion," he said dryly, and the look he gave Bayly clearly spelled out what he was thinking: '_How apropos. It should be mandatory for the little dullards to drink it regularly_.'

"Very funny," Bayly whispered, nonetheless conceding a smile more because of the connection he sensed to his mentor than to the humour of the idea. "Once the bile has been added, bring the potion to a low boil." He paused to allow them to adjust the flames under their cauldrons. "While it is boiling, you'll need to chop your ginseng root. Chop, not dice—we've gone over the difference," he stipulated, lest Severus decide to chime in and insert it himself.

Snape smirked at him just before announcing, "Please do not fall under the delusion that mangling your root qualifies as _chopping_, for it most assuredly does not. Keep in mind that I will be calling upon students to test their brews when they're complete, so I suggest full attention to detail. I highly doubt many of you could stand to lose what wits you've got."

"Thank you, Professor, I'll take it from here," Bayly said in a tone very reminiscent of Lucius' overtly-polite-yet-get-the-bloody-hell-out-of-here drawl.

Severus scowled. The kid was spending far too much time with Malfoy! Fine, he didn't want to teach the class anyway…bunch of snarky wee prats with mush for brains…would probably blow up a cauldron or two by day's end. It's not like he missed teaching Potions or anything. He had Defense Against the Dark Arts, which he loved and the students loved him…_let's not get carried away, Snape_, he cautioned himself. They loved the subject, as well they ought to; whether they even remotely _liked_ him was debatable and irrelevant.

Whatever the case, he was here to observe Bayly's teaching, so he found himself silently trolling up and down the aisles like a specter, peering into cauldrons, wrinkling his nose in distaste at brews gone awry. How could one mess up a Wit-Sharpening Potion? Seriously? Maybe they ought to be fed a dose of it before they began! He hardly blamed the teacher, for he himself had been on the receiving end of the children's stupidity more times than he could count. There was only so much an instructor could do. When at last the class was over, the potions tested with only minor irregularities, and the children dismissed, Bayly looked anxiously to him for the verdict.

Severus was tempted to make it difficult for the lad, to point out every instance he'd noted of something the brats had done wrong, of every slight flaw in the outcomes, but honestly he wasn't in the mood. Bayly didn't deserve it. "All in all, they weren't any worse than the typical brood of dunderheads sent our way every year," he remarked finally. "Good job, Bayly. You're a capable teacher."

Coming from someone else, this may not have seemed high praise; coming from Snape, his hero/mentor/surrogate father, it meant a lot. Bayly relaxed and smiled as he slumped onto a stool. "Thank you, sir. When is my next exam?"

"If I told you, what fun would that be?" purred Severus as he headed for the door. "I'll see you at lunch."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**November 6, 2000**

Harry poked his head out of the joke shop door and looked around, up and down Diagon Alley. The coast was clear. It was sort of fun to have a mission again, to be sneaking about again, albeit without his invisibility cloak he was much more obvious to the public. On his lunch break from auror training, he hadn't a lot of time to spare, so he scurried over a few stores to Peak's Portraits and slipped inside. The bell over the door announced his entrance with a sweet tinkling.

Mr. Peak came out of the back room, and Harry felt his stomach tighten. He'd just assumed Jacinta would be the one to answer. "Uh, hello, sir. Is Jacinta in?"

"She just left for lunch with her boyfriend," answered Mr. Peak, smiling as everyone seemed to do at Harry.

"Oh, I should've thought of that!" Harry berated himself, shaking his head. "I'm sorry to bother you." Great, he'd messed it up before he'd even begun! "What time does she get off work? Maybe I could come back?"

"She's finishing up a portrait right now, and she has a very strong work ethic. I've found her staying late many a night," said the proprietor proudly. "Check in around five, though, just in case."

"Yeah, I can do that," said Harry, nodding. "Thank you—and don't tell her I was here, alright? She might get the wrong idea."

"Whatever you say, Harry Potter," agreed Mr. Peak.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Waiting was not Harry's strong suit. He absolutely detested waiting! He hadn't been good at it as a boy, and he hadn't really gotten much better as a man. He needed action, he craved excitement—hence his choice of auror as a profession, despite the fact that it often involved the dreaded waiting. But he'd promised, and he wasn't going to break his promise to a good friend. For the rest of the day he could barely concentrate on his studies, for he had a task to complete.

At five on the dot, he appeared outside Peak's Portraits and went inside, along with the bell overhead chiming his arrival. There was a stirring in the back room, and this time Jacinta came to the front, wearing a white, paint-covered smock over her robes.

"Harry! What a surprise. Did you come to commission a portrait?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that." He fidgeted from foot to foot. "Can I talk to you in private? Are we alone?"

Concern etched itself on her features. "Is something wrong?"

"No! I don't mean to worry you." Harry walked the length of the shop looking up at the finished, yet unclaimed portraits. He could swear the eyes of some of them were following him. "Are these animated?"

"Yes, some of them," said Jacinta, pointing to the first in the row and the second on the other wall. "What's going on?"

"Can we talk in the back? I feel weird having an audience."

Shrugging, Jacinta led him to the back room, and the thick curtain fell behind them, effectively blocking sight, if not sound. On an easel he spied the nearly complete portrait of a heavyset woman in her late years, and a photo of her on the desk beside it. "Alright, we're alone. What's so secretive we must hide in here?"

Harry turned to face her. "You know I'm friends with George Weasley, yeah? I've spoken to him about what happened on Halloween at the Malfoys' party."

"Oh?" Jacinta leaned back, arms crossed, in the classic pose meant to keep people at arm's length.

"He's really sorry, and—well, I feel bad for him. He didn't want to upset you."

"Did he send you to beg for him?" she asked incredulously, and at the same time somewhat flattered—and on top of that, angry with herself for being flattered.

Harry let out a sheepish grin. "Sort of. He knew you wouldn't welcome him, but he wanted to explain. I said I'd do it for him."

The witch's arms crossed even more tightly, if possible, and her lips pinched till they nearly disappeared. "What is there to explain? He pulled a spiteful, callous trick on Zabini and expected me to think it was funny. Then again, since your father acted the same way to mine, maybe you don't see anything wrong with it."

Harry flushed. "That's not fair, Jacinta. I don't go around telling people, but my cousin used to do a lot of awful, cruel things to me; I know how it feels to be in that position. When I found out what my dad had done, it sickened me. I didn't think Zabini's embarrassment was funny, either."

"Then why are you defending George?" she exclaimed.

For a split second Harry had to wonder that himself. But no, he knew George better than that. It wasn't the same! "I'm not here to excuse it, only to tell you what I know: George isn't a mean bloke. Blaise had been provoking him and tormenting him for weeks, and he just snapped. He didn't hurt him and he could have, if that's worth anything."

There was a long pause while Jacinta set to putting away her paints and rinsing out her brushes. Finally she said, "I'm sorry I judged you. I shouldn't have." Another chiming of the bell over the door. "I need to go out there."

"What about George?" asked Harry.

"What about him? What does he want me to say?"

"That you forgive him and you'll give him another chance to be a friend to you," said Harry.

"Over my dead body!" Theo barked, tearing aside the curtain and storming into the back room. "Get away from my girlfriend, Potter. We don't need the likes of you and your cronies."

Harry looked from Theo to Jacinta and back before saying calmly, "I believe that's her decision, not yours."

That stopped Theo in his tracks. He'd always been taught to treat women with respect and dignity, and he had no right to foist his ideas or decisions onto her. Fair enough. But he knew something Jacinta didn't, something that would make all the difference in how she felt. "Cinta, Weasley is bad news. He told Blaise he saw you as a conquest."

"Oh, please, Nott!" Harry snarled, shaking his head in disbelief. "You'll say anything, won't you? Are you that desperate?"

Jacinta glanced at Harry, but focused on her beau. She wasn't stupid, she'd noticed how George fawned over her in more than a friendly way, and she could understand that it might upset Theo even though she wasn't interested in George as anything more than a friend. But to tell Blaise something so inflammatory? It didn't make sense. Why would George tell Blaise _anything_, let alone something so ridiculous? And if he _had_ said it, why hadn't Blaise or Theo come to her with it before this? Was it truly jealousy speaking on his part now?

"Theo, that's kind of hard to believe," she said at last.

"Melodramatic comes to mind," Harry quipped.

Theo stopped himself from telling Potter where to shove it. He looked in earnest at his witch. "I can prove it. Let's get Blaise and go to Hogwarts. Your Papa has a pensieve, we can settle this once and for all."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

No way in heaven or hell was Severus going to let a bunch of hellions—even if one of them was his daughter, and particularly because one of them was Harry Potter—play with his pensieve unless he was present. After hearing the jumbled story in four part harmony, and deeming that although he could easily probe Zabini's memory for the truth, he thought it best Jacinta see for herself. If what Theodore said was fact, it was the best way…and if it were fact, God help Weasley.

Blaise used his wand to pull the memory in a silvery stream from his mind, and he dropped it into the pensieve. One by one the rest took turns plunging their faces into the icy liquid. It was worth the trouble of allowing Potter in solely for the expression on his face, confused incredulity mingled with disgust. Theo came up with an air of vindication; Jacinta returned looking horrified and ready to weep, and she clung to Theo for support. Lastly Snape placed his face in the pensieve, and when he pulled himself from the memory it took all his willpower not to immediately seek and destroy George.

"I—I don't understand," said Harry in the eerie silence.

_What a shocker, Potter doesn't understand something_, Snape thought. "It seems relatively cut and dried, does it not? Jacinta, have you seen what you needed to?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak over the humiliation of being thought a toy, and the anger that went along with it. Theo slid an arm round her waist to hold her close. He hadn't wanted to show this to her, he hadn't wanted her to ever know…but more than that, he hadn't wanted to lose her.

"I don't get something," Harry went on. "Why did Zabini use Polyjuice to look like Charlie in the first place?"

"Because I knew Weasley was up to something," said Blaise nonchalantly. "He wouldn't tell me, now would he? I only wanted to tell him to lay off Jacinta—you saw what his response was."

"Theo," Jacinta said quietly, surprisingly calmly. "Why did you hold this back from me?"

He nuzzled his face against her neck, hiding his expression as he spoke. "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't want you to be hurt. When Blaise told me what he'd done, I was furious, I wanted to kill Weasley."

"Instead Blaise goaded him into showing himself an arse so that I wouldn't want anything to do with him," she finished in a bare whisper.

Theo's head bobbed slowly against her. He should have known she'd figure it out; she wasn't a Snape for nothing. "Yes."

"So you didn't trust me enough to make up my own mind, to know my own feelings?" she asked in that way that made his blood run cold.

"I trust you, Cinta…I don't trust him, and for good reason, as you saw." Theo lifted his head, his brown eyes pleading with her. "I need you."

"I want to go home," she said abruptly, softly. Theo stepped away to let her pass; she took his hand and gazed into his eyes. "Don't you want to come with me?"

"Always," he answered honestly, squeezing her palm in his. "Always."

Together they floo'd to Nott Manor, where Theo lived alone. As soon as they were gone, Severus turned on Blaise and Harry. "Feel free to get out of my office at any time," he drawled. He had a distasteful visit of his own to make.


	45. Cryme Tyme

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 44 (Cryme Tyme)

**November 6, 2000**

Snape was pissed. On a good day, that was a very bad thing…hell, if Snape was pissed, there wasn't much chance of his antagonist_ having_ a good day. In the scheme of things, it was hardly unprecedented; he was frequently angry, peeved, disgusted, and assorted other adjectives concerning the student populace and the world at large. This was different: this involved his daughter, and no one—no one—was going to play with her emotions or use her. Period.

Lips pinched, nostrils flared, he floo'd to The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, from where he apparated out to the Burrow. No doubt Weasley had gone home for the day after work, so no point in trolling Diagon Alley for him. His fist pounded on the rickety doorframe, and he consciously took a step back when the structure actually shuddered. Another knock and the place looked ready to fall like a pile of matchsticks.

"Why, Severus Snape! What a surprise!" Molly threw open the door and before he could initiate escape maneuvers she wrestled him into a bear hug. "We've missed you, Severus. Why haven't you been back for so long? If we hadn't seen you at the Malfoys' Halloween party, why—"

"Molly, stop—that—I'm—you're—suffocating—me," he managed to sputter, eyes bulging.

"Oh, listen to me prattle on," Molly said cheerfully, pulling far enough away for Severus to suck in a breath. "I forget how fragile you are, no meat on your bones. I thought perhaps Aline's cooking would fatten you up."

Snape snorted involuntarily. If anyone relied on Aline's cooking to add weight, they'd be waiting a long time. Wheezing slightly, he bent over to take a deep inhalation, and let it out slowly. At last he straightened up, all pretense of dignity vanished. It was so much harder to be a hardass when you'd just been beaten up by a girl who wasn't even trying!

"Molly," he said, trying to recapture a bit of poise, "is George here?"

"No, he hasn't come in yet. He ought to be in for supper, though. Why?"

"I've some business with him." The cold gleam had returned to his eye, noticed by the witch. She made a move that he interpreted as threatening—i.e., looked about to assault his person with another deadly embrace—and his wand flashed from his wrist holster into his hand.

"Severus, what is the meaning of this?" she demanded, slapping his arm down. "If you've got a problem with this family, you do not settle or solve it with a wand. Come in here and sit down, tell me what's on your mind."

Well, it couldn't hurt, right? He dutifully traipsed in after her and seated himself at the kitchen table; immediately a plateful of sweetbreads appeared, along with a steaming cup of tea. "This isn't necessary," he began, then dropped it. Telling Molly Weasley not to feed him was akin to telling Harry Potter to stay dead—it didn't take.

"Hi, Mrs. Weasley."

That voice…that voice like the grating of nails on a blackboard! Oh, no he didn't! This was Severus' own fault; he only had to think that name, and the dunce appeared from somewhere in this wobbly labyrinth structure. Did he never learn?

"Harry, say hello to Professor Snape," Molly encouraged as though speaking to a five-year-old.

"Hey, Professor," Harry said obediently, then addressed the woman. "I just saw him at his office not fifteen minutes ago." He leaned in front of Snape to snatch a particularly plump roll filled with jelly.

"Really? What were you doing at his office?" asked Molly.

"That is why I am here," Severus interrupted, lest they forget altogether that he was sitting right there. "It has come to my…our…attention that George has been harbouring less than savory intentions toward my daughter. I plan to rectify the situation."

Molly's eyes grew wide and she slid into a seat across the table from Snape. Harry plopped on a stool nearby, chewing on his snack but notably not disputing what the older wizard said, which in itself made Molly's stomach tighten. Harry rarely outright agreed with Snape on anything, up to and including the colour of the sky.

Choosing words carefully, Molly said, "George is a fine young man, Severus. I find that hard to swallow. Explain what you mean."

And Severus did. For the next ten minutes, he elaborated on the scene in the pensieve, giving a blow by blow description and narration of the conversation, with Harry interjecting a tad here and there until Severus thought he'd throttle the prat. He summed it up with, "Mr. Zabini claims to have impersonated Charlie in order to find out George's motives and to warn him away from Jacinta; the memory upholds that claim."

"I'm speechless," Molly answered, shaking her head and going on to prove that she was indeed capable of speech. With trepidation in her voice, she asked, "Does Jacinta know any of this? And what did you have in mind to 'rectify the situation'?" This was _Snape_, she had a fair idea of what it meant.

"Jacinta saw the entire scene in the pensieve the same as we did," Severus answered tightly. He found it oddly comforting that Molly's face hardened at the news. "As for your son, I had planned to hex his arse until he begged for mercy and swore to maintain a sizable distance from Jacinta."

"Hex whose arse?" asked George, wandering into the fray looking confused to see the Potions master at his kitchen table, acting far too cozy for comfort with Harry.

"What in blazes do you think you're up to, young man?" Molly roared, grabbing George by his remaining ear and slamming him into the seat next to Harry. Severus had begun to remove his wand, but decided instead to see what Molly had up her voluminous sleeve.

"Oooww!" George screeched, rubbing the injured ear. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you trying to steal Jacinta from Theodore Nott so you can play asinine games with her!" shouted his mother. "How dare you treat her like an object!"

"I don't know where you got that idea, but you're way off base," George replied.

Molly glared at George till he shrank under her gaze. "So when you said, '_I'm not doing anything __yet__. Give me some time and opportunity_', and my personal favourite, '_It's a challenge, Charlie. Do we have to spell everything out for you? This one is different. Ergo, she must be pursued'_, you were talking about someone other than Jacinta?"

"How did you—where—" he stammered.

"Professor Snape," Harry and Molly said in unison, which in truth did nothing to clarify for the befuddled man. His mother went on, "Do you deny it? It won't do you any good, they saw it in the pensieve. Jacinta saw it! How do you think that made her feel?"

"Uh, Mum, technically I didn't even say that last part; Fred did," George hedged, face pointed at the floor. "I never meant for Jacinta to hear it."

"But you agreed with it."

"But—well, that's only 'cause I thought it was none of Charlie's business!" George howled in his own defense. "I do care for Jacinta, I really like her."

"And you will stay away from her," said Snape in an icy tone that brooked no sass.

"You can't make me—" George started before realizing Snape could damned well make him do just about anything he set his mind to, with the right _incentives_. Having been a Death Eater, he surely had quite a repertoire of _incentives_ upon which to draw if he were so motivated.

"You'll do as you're told, young man!" Molly bawled, pointing at the windy staircase. "Get up to your room."

"Mum, this is ridiculous, I'm twenty-two years old," he protested, glancing at the other wizards in the room and recognizing he'd get no help from them.

Molly stood up, a full foot shorter than her son, yet he quaked. With hands on ample hips, she announced, "You do not steal women from other men, and you do not treat witches as sport. You can deal with Severus or with me. Which is it?"

"I'm not even doing that!" he squawked futilely. George bounced glances between his mother and his former teacher. Mum had a wicked spoon arm, but Snape—well, he might end up missing more than an ear when all was said and done. "This isn't fair!"

"I'm waiting!"

"I'm thinking," George growled, before bolting for the stairs. Molly _accio'_d the heavy wooden spoon from the counter and took off after him, crashing up the stairs behind him.

Harry shoveled the last of his bread into his mouth, chewed it thoughtfully, and swallowed. "Are you waiting for something?" he asked finally, with the sound of George's howls wafting down the stairs in the background.

Severus got up, barely able to contain the smile lurking beneath his sneer. "No, I think I've got what I came for." George would keep his distance from Snape's daughter, and Snape wouldn't be going to Azkaban for accomplishing the feat. All in all, an equitable conclusion.

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April 1977

When Lucius Apparated to the meadow outside the dilapidated farmhouse, he fully expected a repeat of the last time he'd been called here. He waited for others to start appearing, and when they didn't he began to worry. Had he come to the wrong place? No, that wasn't possible. So where was everyone? For lack of an answer, he made his way toward the falling apart structure. He didn't hear anything, no one talking, no screaming; that may or may not be a good sign.

The mask over his face felt hot, and his robes seemed heavy, almost wet from the humidity in the air. Only now, in the broad daylight, he saw a multitude of greenery—bushes, trees, even the grass beneath his feet. Very odd. Reluctantly he pushed open the door, which gave way with a loud creaking groan, and stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a figure in front of him.

Bellatrix, hands on hips, wearing her typical short skirt and tight top, sneered at him as he entered. "Took you long enough, blondie. Were you hoping we'd go play in the field with you?"

"Don't you ever go home?" he responded blandly, knowing it would suck the wind from her sails. At her sulky pout, he smiled beneath his mask, right before using his wand to remove the heavy robes and mask. "Where are we?"

Bella sneered again. "Do I look like a map?"

"No, you look like a two-bit hooker," he drawled, smirking. With her wand suddenly thrust in his face, he had a change of opinion. "I'm kidding, Bella!"

She leaned in very close to his face. "I don't think you're very funny." Her wand traced a path from his temple to his jaw, never leaving his skin. "So pretty. Wouldn't Cissy be heartbroken if you came home with that pretty face all messed up?"

Lucius rolled his eyes and pushed her away. "Get off me. The master called for me, where is he?"

She sighed loudly and flounced out of the room with Lucius right behind her. She led him into what he imagined might have been a parlor or sitting room at one time. At the crumbling fireplace she stopped to push one of the bricks.

"Get in," she ordered. Without waiting for him to comply, she shoved him onto the hearth.

The whole structure seemed to fall at an incredible rate that made his stomach soar and his head dizzy. It landed with nothing more than a gentle bump, and he was in a huge cavern lit by numerous torches lining the walls, casting eerie shadows off the rock formations.

"My lord!" he called out as he stepped tentatively away from the fireplace. The ground beneath his feet felt soft, moist. A chill in the air made him wish he hadn't left his Death Eater robes up above in the farmhouse.

"Lucius," came Voldemort's soft voice, drawing out the 's'. "Where have you been?"

"Arguing with Bellatrix," Lucius answered. It wouldn't do to lie over something so trivial. He glanced around again, unable to see the dark wizard.

"She's easily bored," the voice returned. "She longs for excitement, which perhaps I ought to grant her. There _have_ been Muggles prowling about." Voldemort materialized only inches from Lucius' face, prompting him to lurch backward in shock.

He felt his face go red as the dark lord laughed at his surprise. His wildly beating heart began to calm as he knelt to kiss Voldemort's robe, then stood up. "How did you do that? Were you _invisible_, my lord?"

"No, Malfoy. Even I cannot make myself invisible. I produced a small mirage to make you think all you saw was a cave. I was standing behind the image the whole time." His high cackle split the air again.

_You and Bella need to get out more often_, Lucius thought subversively. Apparently the seclusion wasn't doing either of them any favours. "You called for me, master."

"I have a task for you." The dark lord stretched out his hand and a book flew to him from the inner recesses of the cave, then he swung back around to Lucius. "I wish for you to keep this article of mine safe until I'm in need of it."

Lucius' whole body relaxed so suddenly he almost stumbled. All he had to do was hold on to a book? "I'm truly honored you've chosen me." Strangely enough, he genuinely did feel honored to be singled out in a good way.

Voldemort handed him the object. "This was a journal of mine from when I was at Hogwarts. As you can see, the pages have been wiped clean. I would advise against trying to bring the words back." It was uttered almost as a threat.

"I wouldn't dream of it, master." Especially now that he'd been warned. The thing probably had a multitude of spells and charms on it, none of which he cared to have attached to himself.

"Stash this in one of your enchanted safes where no one will see it or have access to it. Is that clear?" Voldemort's red eyes pierced the other man.

"Completely, master. But if I may ask—what is so important about an old diary that no longer contains any words?" Immediately he regretted asking.

Voldemort took a step forward, wand raised. "Are you questioning me, Lucius?"

"No, master, not at all." He ducked his head and braced for the _crucio_. "Purely curiosity."

"We all know what curiosity killed, don't we?" Voldemort purred, sounding very nearly like the cat to which he alluded, though his wand lowered to his side. "Do as I say."

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Late May, 1980

Voldemort motioned for Lucius to get up from where he groveled on the floor. Skipping preliminaries he said, "Malfoy, three years ago I gave you a diary of mine for safekeeping. I trust you still have it."

"Of course, my lord. It's in one of our safes," he assured the dark wizard.

"Snape is poised to obtain a teaching position at Hogwarts." Voldemort enjoyed the look of surprise crossing the other's face. Evidently they weren't as close of friends as he'd thought, if Snape hadn't told him of his mission. "Once he is a professor, you'll have access to Hogwarts in a whole new way—by visiting a friend rather than making an official visit as governor."

Lucius said nothing, having no idea where this was going.

"The diary will come in very handy," the dark lord said cryptically. "No doubt you've heard of the Heir of Slytherin, Lucius." He studied the young man for signs of recognition, slightly put off to notice only a blank expression. "He is descended from Salazar Slytherin, the co-founder of Hogwarts who created the Chamber of Secrets."

Another obtuse expression greeted him.

"Don't they teach you anything at Hogwarts anymore?" demanded Voldemort.

"Apparently not, my lord," murmured Lucius, lowering his eyes. Was it his fault Dumbledore suppressed all the interesting aspects of magic and history? Or that his own father had gone to Durmstrang for most of his student career and therefore had little knowledge to offer about Hogwarts? "I beg you to enlighten me."

Voldemort wiggled back on his throne, crossing his legs and sighing like a martyr. "Salazar Slytherin created the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts to house a great creature, a basilisk, to do his bidding. No one but he knew where the chamber was or how to access it. He had to seal the chamber when the other founders started searching, though legend told of his heir to come who would re-open the chamber and allow the basilisk to finish its work."

"What work might that be, my lord?" He thought it wise not to ask what a _basilisk_ was; he'd have to look it up later.

"The work of driving the mudblood filth out of Hogwarts."

"But I thought Dumbledore was the one who first allowed mudbloods in," Lucius said, looking confused. "They were at Hogwarts in Salazar Slytherin's time?"

"Oh, Dumbledore made it much worse, soliciting the savages. But no, the other founders had no pride in their pureblood heritage," Voldemort explained, shaking his head in disgust with a grimace that twisted his face until it was more hideous than usual. "They didn't realize that purebloods must remain so in order to keep the true, pure magic alive; they didn't care about betraying their ancestors by mixing superior blood with inferior, dirtying it, warping the magic."

Lucius nodded along in complete agreement. Pureblood upbringing mandated they cherish the gift of magic they'd been given, that they taught their children how to use it and respect it. Without purebloods, where did they think halfbloods—and by an ironic accident of genetics, mudbloods—came from? If no purebloods existed, magic would die out, or at the very least the world would revert to killing witches and wizards who popped up by chance every now and again, incapable of controlling their magic. For once he didn't have to pretend; he concurred wholeheartedly with the master.

"Salazar Slytherin understood the need to keep blood pure, as do most of those sorted into his House. As I said, he was compelled to seal the chamber, which was to be opened by his heir. I am that heir, Malfoy."

"Seriously?" exclaimed Lucius, hurriedly backtracking. "I mean, that's incredible, my lord!"

"Obviously Dumbledore has effectively stifled any mention of the chamber or the heir, else you'd know that I _did_ re-open the chamber when I was at Hogwarts." Lucius stared at him, wide eyed and enthralled. "The basilisk killed a mudblood and they were set to close Hogwarts. I was forced to seal the chamber once more, which brings me to why you've been summoned. The diary I entrusted to you has the power to open the chamber again, to allow the work to be finished, to chase out the mudbloods once and for all."

"It truly is an astonishing object, my lord. I'm humbled that you've chosen me to guard it." He rolled the notion over in his mind, fascinated; that little book could cause the mudbloods to run screaming from Hogwarts, fearful ever to return! How utterly wonderful!

Voldemort gave a magnanimous nod. "When the time is right, I'll give the order for you to pass the diary into Hogwarts where it can begin its work."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_May 1980_

_ I can hardly believe my ears. Lucius Malfoy didn't even know about the Heir of Slytherin! Or the Chamber of Secrets! What is this world coming to? Certainly I must blame Albus Dumbledore, who is in charge of educating our youth, yet finds it convenient to omit anything which doesn't fit into his neat little picture of the world—much like Dark Magic. It's a wonder these youngsters nowadays know anything at all; then again, the purebloods have their parents to teach them the most important things._

_ I have given Lucius instructions; once Snape is instituted as teacher at Hogwarts, he will be free to visit much more often than he can do as a governor. He will seek out an opportunity to slip the diary into Hogwarts, perhaps to one of the less clever students, and we will watch__ from afar as the basilisk chases the mudbloods away. Technically, my younger self will observe up close, though none of my Death Eaters is privy to that tidbit._

_If more deaths ensue, or even if the filth is merely frightened into leaving, my work will be complete. Dumbledore will not be able to convince the Governing Board that it is worthwhile to seek out Muggleborns to attend Hogwarts when they pose a risk to all. I can scarcely contain my joy. It doesn't gain me control of the wizarding world, but one step at a time._

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**November 6****, 2000**

"Hey, Cissy!" Regulus came up behind his cousin in Horizont Alley and plucked little Ladon up off the ground, to swing him up onto his shoulders. Ladon squealed and laughed, then sunk his tiny hands into Reg's hair for anchoring.

"Regulus, what are you doing here?" Narcissa gave him a hug with Khala in one arm stretching over to the young man and trying to join her brother on his shoulder.

"Just wandering about," he answered, falling into step with her. "I got off work a while ago, thought I'd see what's going on in all the old haunts."

Narcissa raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Does that mean you were on your way to the pub down the street?"

"No!" he said, a bit louder than necessary, and automatically began glancing furtively around. "Is Lucius here?"

"He'll be joining me shortly. Why?"

"Um…well, I'm kind of steering clear of him," Regulus admitted.

Narcissa heaved a great sigh. "Did you two fight again?"

Reg shook his head. "You know we don't fight; he bosses me around like a dumb little brother." His gaze rose to hers, his dark eyes peering into her blue orbs. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing, I like having him—you know, like a brother. I'm not complaining."

He paused to throw Ladon into the air and catch him. The boy squealed again, and Khala shrieked indignantly at the pair, stretching out her teensy arms to him and babbling an incoherent demand for equal time. Reg obligingly deposited Ladon on the cobblestones, took Khala from her mother, and tossed her into the air as well, where she screeched as if someone were killing her, then laughed uproariously.

"Regulus, you're avoiding telling me what's wrong," Narcissa said. She had stopped outside a café where several tables were set up. She seated herself and patted the chair beside her for him. Ladon scurried over and crawled up belly first onto it instead, then righted himself like a little gentleman, grinning like a Cheshire cat at the man.

Reg walked round to the other side and sat down, holding Khala standing on his lap. She poked at his eyes and nostrils, and leaned up into him until her face mashed against his and her round grey eyes blurred into oblivion against him. Then she threw herself backward, holding onto his hair for support, and he yelped. "Lucius came to me the other day, the day after the party. He challenged me to quit drinking, and I said I would." He smiled at the wee girl and hugged her to him. "It was harder than I thought it would be. I tried, Cissy, I really did. I only managed three days before I slipped up." He ducked his head, chewing his lip.

His cousin reached over to stroke his arm. "Lucius cares about you the same as I do, Reg. He won't be angry with you for trying."

With tears in his eyes, Reg wailed, "I know! And that makes it worse. I feel like I let him down! When it was just him yelling at me, it didn't matter, but now that I know he loves me it makes a big difference."

"He told you that?" Narcissa asked in astonishment. Of course she knew it to be true, but it wasn't like her husband to go about saying so.

"He didn't say it exactly, but he didn't deny it, either," said Regulus.

He flipped the little girl so she faced the table and was unable to pursue her inspection of his nasal cavity. She promptly wriggled free to crawl onto the table surface. Seeing what great fun it was, Ladon stood on his chair to accompany her, until Narcissa dragged him back to a seated position and snatched her daughter up.

"Well, he does," she confirmed, nodding. "You don't have to do this alone, Reg. We both want what's best for you, and we'll do whatever it takes to help you, if that's what you need." One hand pressed affectionately against Regulus' cheek, and she got a peculiar look. "When did you get whiskers?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Theo swept his girlfriend's hair off her face and leaned against her on the couch. "You haven't said anything in a long time. What are you thinking?" He immediately regretted asked.

"I'm thinking that I don't even know you, Theo," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"What? You know everything about me," he protested, his heart skipping a beat.

"You've been sneaking about right under my nose. How long were you and Blaise hatching your plot against George to make him act like a jerk?" she asked, turning to look at him and watching him recoil.

"I don't know, a couple weeks," Theo mumbled. "But in my defense, if I'd attacked him like I wanted to when I heard what he'd said, you'd be mad at me and I'd probably be in prison."

Here she paused, a long, interminable length of silence that made Theo's skin crawl. Finally she said, "So you think if you'd told me what he said, I wouldn't believe you? I'd take his side?"

It was Nott's turn to hesitate. That is precisely what he thought, yet he was certain it wasn't what she wanted to hear…but wasn't he supposed to be honest with her? Isn't that why she was upset with him to begin with? "Well, yes." He ignored the gasp of indignation and went on, "First, I didn't want to hurt your feelings with having you hear something so mean, and second, you'd think I was being a jealous dolt, and I was afraid it would make you like George all the more. And Blaise convinced me this was the best way."

For a moment he thought she was about to cry, when the corners of her mouth tipped upward and she shook her head. "You really are a stupid man. No wonder my Papa was against my dating you."

"Hey!"

"Don't listen to Blaise anymore, Theodore. He's one brick short of a wall, if you know what I mean." She laid her head on his chest, and he drew his arms around her. "But thank you for being considerate of my feelings, even if it wasn't the right thing to do in this case."

"You're welcome," he said, not knowing what else to say. He stayed there, holding her, for a few minutes before venturing, "You want some wine? It might loosen you up, you're all tense." He expected her to decline, but instead she nodded and made a soft assent.

He left her on the sofa while he opened the liquor cabinet. If there wasn't any wine, he'd have to go into the cellar—ah, there it was. He didn't make a habit of raiding the cabinet lest his parents come home to check up on him, which his mother did every once in a while. She still hadn't reconciled him living alone when in her mind he ought to be with family. He plucked a bottle from the shelf, grabbed the corkscrew, and twisted it into the cork before pulling it out with a loud pop. He brought it over, along with two glasses, and set them on the coffee table.

He poured half a glass for her and then for himself, raised his goblet, and said, "To us."

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**November 7, 2000**

"Severus!" The scream ripped from the most unlikely source, a frail old woman in emerald robes bustling down the corridor like a sprinter in training. She closed in on the gargoyle and barked the password, then galloped up the stairs to Snape's office, where he was coming out to see what the commotion was about. "Severus, it's awful, terrible—"

"Minerva, get ahold of yourself," he advised, pulling her into the office to shut the door lest another outburst frighten the entire student body. It wasn't every day this staid, primly- bunned woman comported herself hysterically, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with a school full of panic-stricken children. "It can't be that bad. Tell me what's wrong."

Panting, Minerva stared him straight in the eye as she announced dramatically, "What's wrong, Severus, is that the Chamber of Secrets has been reopened!"


	46. Propositions and Proposals

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 46 (Propositions and Proposals)

**November 7, 2000**

_Dear Lucius,_

_ I know Mummy said to call you Mr. Malfoy, but I can call you Lucius in a letter 'cause nobody will see it. I'm sorry I couldn't go to your Halloween party, Mummy said it was for grown-ups. It's not fair. My sister gets to have fun at Hogwarts, and I have to stay home and be bored. And I really want to see you and Severus. I think there's something wrong with me, but I can't tell Mummy, she'd think I was weird. I think my magic is going away. I can't tell anymore if Therese is lying when she writes, and I always could before. If my magic keeps leaving me, I won't have any left by the time I'm old enough to go to Hogwarts! Your daddy lost his magic, didn't he? So I know it can happen. Please write back soon, I'm scared. Love, Sunny_

Lucius leaned back in his chair, letter in hand, gazing at it as his eyes scanned the words once more. Most unusual—both Sunny and her ideas, he smiled to himself. And yet, he couldn't help but feel a niggling of doubt, of actual fear that if something like losing magic were possible, they'd all be in trouble. If anyone would know the truth of that, it would be the old doctor who'd been a good friend of Abraxas, the one who'd helped him perform the _conviare_ twice. He had seemed extremely well versed on the most marginal and obscure aspects of magic and spells. Maybe he ought to consult with the old wizard before writing back, lest he give the child wrong information. If there were indeed something amiss, it had better be dealt with right off.

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**May 20****, 1942**

Tom's breathing quickened. Although he'd been setting the basilisk on the population of Hogwarts for two months, he felt a special thrill tonight, and for the life of him he didn't know why. No one had died as a result of the creature's attacks, and no mudbloods had taken flight; honestly, he was beginning to wonder if this whole Heir of Slytherin thing was all it was cracked up to be. And yet, every time he neared the chamber, excitement mounted as if it were the very first time he was finally going to loose the basilisk after years of talking about it with Salazar Slytherin, after the years of planning, and preparing, and grooming the creature so that the beast would not kill him by accident. He'd taken care not to inform his comrades, not to speak of it at all even when one or another alluded to his possible involvement, lest one of them leave his mind open to Dumbledore, or simply let it slip. This was too important, too crucial not to maintain silence.

He skulked down the hallway, vigilant to make sure no one saw him—a disillusion charm helped immensely, although there were few people in the corridor to begin with, it being near curfew. He scanned up and down the hall, then pushed open the door to the girl's second floor bathroom and slipped quickly inside. His heart pounding against his ribcage like a jackhammer, he approached the sinks and went straight to the only one with a snake carved on the faucet.

"_Open the Chamber,_" he said in parseltongue.

Immediately the sink swung aside with a deep, grating sound, revealing a huge pipe large enough for a human to slide down to the chamber. Rather than enter the pipe as he'd done numerous times in the past, when he was preparing for this momentous day, he stood firmly in place in the bathroom. It was time.

"_Basilisk, come forth_," he called into the tube. He paused to listen for the rustling, swishing sound the creature made as it snaked its way along. There was no discernable movement. Maybe it was asleep. He really hoped he wouldn't have to go into the chamber and wake it up…it wasn't a particularly pleasant animal, certainly not cuddly and sweet, even if it was the closest thing to a pet he'd ever had. "_Basilisk, come out now!_" he hissed much louder.

Now he heard it, and he stepped back in anticipation. In spite of his misgivings, the sheer excitement of the situation took him over. It was really happening, he was fulfilling his role as Heir to the greatest wizard ever to live! One of the greatest, anyway. From one direction he listened to the drawing near of his basilisk, from the other he heard a wholly unexpected whiny voice:

"Boys aren't supposed to be in the girls' bathroom! Get out!"

Tom's head whipped in the direction of the voice, the same instant the basilisk poked its head up from the pipe in the floor. Riddle's gaze fell on a dumpy, pimply faced Ravenclaw girl wearing thick glasses and standing with hands on her hips at the door of a stall. A split second later she toppled over dead, her red-rimmed eyes still wide open. She lay on the stone floor as Tom walked up to her and gently nudged her with his shoe. Definitely dead.

Cautious to avoid the eyes of the basilisk, he turned to his 'pet'. "_It worked_." He sounded almost surprised. "_Good job. Now go get rid of the rest of the mudbloods._"

Without waiting for an answer, which the beast was incapable of providing, he hurried to the door, peeked out to insure the coast was clear, and ran from the bathroom after calling out for the chamber entrance to close itself. By the time he'd got to the nearest corner, he'd taken off his disillusion charm and settled into a dignified, purposeful pace despite the quickened beating of his heart that made him slightly lightheaded. He was a prefect, he was supposed to be patrolling for curfew breakers. Best get to it.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_May 2__0, 1942_

_ Best day ever. That's what I'd say if the basilisk had managed to rid this school of mudbloods and leave it to purebloods as it ought to be. But no, nothing ever works out as it should. Bassy finally killed a Ravenclaw in the girls' toilet, and within a few hours the body was discovered. I was rather shocked, really, when I saw how easy it was. I don't understand why these blasted mudbloods refuse to take the hint and get out!_

_May 30__, 1942_

_Now Headmaster Dippet is talking about closing the school. No one can determine what killed Myrtle, and they're afraid of more deaths, so the Board has decided to shut down Hogwarts. I can't let that happen! I don't want to go back to that stupid orphanage, among those damnable muggles. This is the closest thing to a home I have, the only contact with wizards and witches. If I leave, I won't be permitted to use magic until I come of age, and that isn't for another seven months. I can't let this go, I must seal the Chamber…and I must find a scapegoat, the 'guilty party' to these crimes. Then the school will be safe again._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**November 7, 2000**

"Severus!" The scream ripped from the most unlikely source, a frail old woman in emerald robes bustling down the corridor like a sprinter in training. She closed in on the gargoyle and barked the password, then galloped up the stairs to Snape's office, where he was coming out to see what the commotion was about. "Severus, it's awful, terrible—"

"Minerva, get ahold of yourself," he advised, pulling her into the office to shut the door lest another outburst frighten the entire student body. It wasn't every day this staid, primly- bunned woman comported herself hysterically, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with a school full of panic-stricken children. "It can't be that bad. Tell me what's wrong."

Panting, Minerva stared him straight in the eye as she announced dramatically, "What's wrong, Severus, is that the Chamber of Secrets has been reopened!"

Snape's normally emotionless countenance betrayed him; his jaw nearly hit the floor before he composed himself and murmured, "I stand corrected." He bolted from the office with McGonagall on his heels. How in the world did that witch manage to move so fast?

Together they rushed to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom on the second floor, their feet pounding a staccato beat on the flagstones, flung open the door, and raced inside. They stopped short, looking around. It seemed to be an ordinary bathroom, minus any of the warmth of human hustle and bustle. Nothing appeared to be out of place, including the sink which they both knew to house the opening to the chamber.

Severus turned to her with a slight twist of his features. "You were saying?"

"I am not crazy, Severus Snape!" she huffed back.

"Did I imply you were?"

Minerva stomped over to the sink with the serpent carved on the tap and shook her bony finger menacingly at it. "This sink was pulled away and there was a gaping hole in the floor." Exasperated at his deadpan stare, she shrieked, "Ask Myrtle if you don't believe me, which you obviously don't!" Pinching her lips to a thin white line, she haughtily rearranged the pointed hat over her hair bun.

Snape obligingly called for the ghost, and a minute later she floated in smiling with glee. More people to talk to! What a bounty this Chamber of Secrets always turned out to be! "Yes, Headmaster Snape? How can I be of service?" she said sweetly as she tugged on one of her pigtails.

"Myrtle, did you see anyone open the Chamber of Secrets?" Severus said, hedging around actually asking if the chamber had been opened at all. Not good to stir up Minerva.

With a melodramatic sigh, Myrtle flew around the room and landed on the faucet in question, floating down to sit primly with legs crossed. "Sadly, I did not. I was visiting the Grey Lady, she was telling me again about her death…I do love those stories. They help me sleep at night when it's so cold and quiet in here, all alone—"

"So you didn't see anything out of place?" Severus persisted, cutting her off.

"I didn't say _that_," Myrtle answered. She felt like giggling, but this was a solemn moment, wasn't it? "When I returned, that sink was out of place and there was that awful hole the basilisk came from. Naturally, it upset me greatly, being the cause of my death and all, and I called out distraughtly. It makes me quite distraught," she added for emphasis, in case the man hadn't caught it.

"Yes, I imagine it does," Severus agreed, which made the ghost positively beam.

"And Professor McGonagall heard me and came in. That's when she saw it," Myrtle finished. "She seemed even more agitated than I was, and I can become very agitated."

"Thank you, Myrtle, your input has truly been helpful," said Severus. "But I have another tiny question: why isn't the chamber open now?"

Myrtle shrugged, raising her shoulders almost to her ears. "I don't know. I followed the professor to make sure she'd be alright, and when I got back here, it was closed."

Minerva and Severus exchanged quizzical glances. Where to go from here? If the chamber had been opened, and apparently it had, someone had to be the culprit. But who? A student? An intruder? And the big question of the day—why? The basilisk was dead, what could possibly be the point in rehashing all this? For the briefest second Severus' heart froze; had _he_ been responsible? He had, after all, almost morphed into Voldemort by reading those diaries, and he was still reading them…but no. He could account very vividly for all of his movements today, no lapses in time or blackouts.

He heaved a tired breath. "Myrtle, will you summon the ghosts, tell them to be on the lookout for an intruder? Meanwhile, I will need to enter the chamber to see if anyone is in there." Myrtle nodded vigorously at the task to which she'd been entrusted and flew out.

Minerva gasped. "You can't be serious! It's too dangerous to go alone."

"What do you propose?" asked the Headmaster, not really interested in her reply, but not in the mood to listen to her shrill histrionics, either.

"We should hold an emergency meeting with all the teachers, get a group to go in," said Minerva. "And we must make sure all the students are safe in their Houses before we begin."

"Yes, by all means, let's wait for the perpetrator to return to his House," said Snape sarcastically.

"I won't let you go alone," she insisted doggedly. "If we're both killed, it will be on your head."

"Warning noted," he said blandly.

"What about Aline? She'd have something to say about this," Minerva persevered. "In fact, I think I'll go speak to her. If memory serves, she has a Potions class right about now."

With that she spun on her heel and swept from the room, leaving Severus grinding his teeth behind her. Aline would indeed shit a brick if he went into the Chamber of Secrets without her knowledge and tacit approval. Not permission. He didn't need her permission. But he also didn't want her angry with him.

He stalked out into the corridor after Minerva and barked, "Fine! Call an emergency meeting in my office. I'll be waiting there."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Theo opened his eyes slowly. His mouth was sucked dry as if cotton balls had been shoved in there and left to their own devices, and his head pounded a bit with every beat of his heart. He hadn't had so much to drink in ages, and he'd forgotten how nasty the aftereffects felt. He hadn't even intended to get plastered, he'd only wanted to make Jacinta feel better. Jacinta! He wrenched his neck to his left, where the witch in question lay snuggled under the blanket, her light brown hair poking out above.

The significance of the situation struck him instantly. He and Jacinta had slept together many times, only that had entailed sleeping on top of the bed, fully clothed. Why were they _in_ the bed? _ Oh. My. God_. Theo lifted the sheet to look down at himself, and the blood drained from his face. It hadn't been merely a wonderful dream after all. "Oh, my God," he mumbled.

"What?" asked Jacinta in a bleary tone, turning her tousled head to him.

"Our parents are gonna kill us," Theo said softly, as if speaking loudly might make it come true more quickly.

"What?" she said again. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and sat up. The sheet fell from her bare breast, and she grabbed it up again in horror. "Oh, God! Did we—I thought it was a dream!"

"It wasn't," he answered, his voice cracking. "I remember it, too." He looked at her, then scooted over close to put an arm around her.

Jacinta stiffened, then leaned against him. "What are we going to do? What if I'm pregnant?"

"You're not," said Theo, sounding as positive as he could, which didn't come off sounding confident at all. "I'm sure you're not. No one will know."

"You don't know that!" Jacinta shrieked, pushing him away. "Daddy and Papa both warned you—oh, Theo, I'm scared."

"Me, too," he admitted. "We need to get a grip, that's all. If we act normal, no one will suspect."

"Papa is a Legilimens!" she cried, shaking her head in despair. "You think he won't see it?"

"Well…it was your idea!" he blurted back. "You said you wanted to, what was I supposed to do?"

"You're the one who got me drunk!" Jacinta shouted back.

"And you were the one squealing 'I wanna do it again'!" Theo yelled.

He slid away from her, dropping his face into his hands, composing himself. This was not helping in any way. They'd made love—twice, and as much as he wished he could say he was sorry for it, he wasn't. He'd wanted this for a long time, a very long time. On the other hand, if she was with child, and the possibility did exist, soon there would be no hiding it. If ever there was a right moment for what he needed to do, this was it.

He lifted his face to her, and took her hand in his. "Marry me, Jacinta."

"No."

Taken aback, Theo sputtered, "W-why? I thought you loved me."

"I do," she said evenly, affecting a blank countenance much like Snape's. "But I don't want you to propose because you're afraid I'm pregnant or because someone will look down on us. If we ever wed, it will be because I know you love me and can't live without me."

"I thought I'd made that clear over the past two years," he answered in a whisper. He slid out of bed, not bothering to hide himself; she'd already seen everything there was to see. Going to his dresser, he eased open the top drawer to remove a small black box, which he carried back to the bed. He popped the lid open and held it out to her. "Since the first time I kissed you, I knew I didn't want anyone else. This isn't a spur of the moment proposal, honey; I bought this ring a year ago, but I was afraid you'd turn me down. I love you, Cinta, and I always will. Please be my wife."

Jacinta stared in astonishment at the gorgeous platinum band with a small diamond in the middle, flanked by oval cut sapphires, then up at the earnest, dark-eyed young man hovering at the edge of the bed looking like a very naked Prince Charming. "It's beautiful. Did you pick it out yourself?"

"Yes," he said, smiling shyly. "The sapphires remind me of your eyes."

The last bit of Jacinta's heart melted, and she scooted across the bed and threw her arms around his neck. "I love you so much. Yes, I will marry you, Theodore Nott."

Theo crushed her in his embrace. Right now, just for a little while, he didn't want to worry about whether she was pregnant, or if Snape was going to kill him. Jacinta was going to marry him, and he couldn't be happier if he tried. Come what may, they'd work it out together.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Dear Sunny,_

_ I'm sorry to hear you're bored. Don't you have lessons to keep you busy until you get to Hogwarts? If you like, I will ask your parents if I may send a tutor to keep you challenged. And of course, whenever possible I'd like to have you visit us here. The children would love to have a new playmate._

_ I think I need to correct you about my father. He did not lose his magic, he gave it up as he was dying. It spilled into you as a result of the __conviare__ spell. You know Dr. Frank Cullin, he is the one who took you to my father; as far as I or Dr. Cullin are aware, it is not possible to lose magic. I know you're frightened, and I've asked him to come with me to visit you; he will perform a few simple tests to ascertain whether there is anything wrong with you. Don't be alarmed, I believe you are fine. _

_I must ask your parents' permission first, but I hope to see you soon. Take care and be good. Love, Lucius_

He rolled the note, secured it with a green silk ribbon as he always did, and whistled for his owl, which appeared at his window shortly and stood on the sill pecking at a small black insect wobbling along the edge of the sill. Tying the message to its leg, Lucius said simply, "Sunny Hawbecker." The owl shot out the window and was gone.

For several minutes Lucius sat at his study desk, thinking. Sunny had to be alright. She was such a sweet girl, so kind and lovable. If there was any sort of problem, Dr. Cullin was the wizard to remedy it. He sincerely hoped there was nothing to be worried about.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

All of Hogwarts' teachers were gathered into Severus' office, jostling for position in the cramped quarters. Poppy and Filius Flitwick accidentally bumped Minerva from behind, nearly buckling her over the desk, and she turned on them with a wicked, scathing glare that wilted them. Hagrid had been politely excused, as Snape saw no rhyme or reason in including the great oaf—er, giant—in the quest into potentially dangerous territory for which he was ill prepared. Sure, he could fend off spells with his thick hide, but throwing any of his own…well, that was a hit or miss proposition despite Bayly's hard work to instruct the big man. Then again, if any heavy lifting was required…maybe he'd send for Hagrid to join them later, assuming the giant could get through the pipe.

"I sense doom on the horizon," Sibyll Trelawney uttered in her most menacing tone, eyes peering through her coke-bottle glasses round the room. "This meeting forebodes evil to come."

Snape glowered her way and she plunked herself onto the sideboard to sulk, dropping her crystal ball back into her monster-sized purse. "Thank you all for coming so promptly. As you may or may not have been informed, someone has reopened the Chamber of Secrets. I plan to enter the chamber to investigate." Minerva nudged him, scowling; he barely restrained himself from hissing at her that he didn't bloody need any help, he was the most capable person here for such a task. "I will ask some of you to accompany me into the chamber."

The professors, most of whom had indeed been made aware of the reason for this meeting, exchanged worried glances and utterances in low tones. After only a few moments, Aline pressed forward to her husband's side.

"I'll go, Severus. I'm well versed in both Light and Dark Arts, and am an excellent dueler, if I do say so myself."

"I'll go, too!" Bayly piped up from the back of the crowd.

"And I," said Firenze, who'd been wedged up against a wall between Madam Rolanda Hooch and Aurora Sinistra. He felt uncomfortably boxed in; even a nasty hole under the castle was sounding good.

Snape actually bit his lip to keep from shouting that no way in hell was his wife going in there. In a steady voice he argued, "Aline, among those here you are the most qualified in Dark Arts, myself excluded. However, we need skilled protection for the students as well." He gestured toward Bayly. "I need professors to take the children to their Houses and guard them. No offense, Bayly, but Aline has much more life experience. If there is an intruder loose, we need to make sure the children are safe." It was an argument she couldn't very well contest, as the security of the students was paramount.

"So what are you saying?" asked Flitwick. "Do you want us to go with you or not?"

"I'd prefer to go alone," Snape admitted, tossing his head back, letting his silky black mane flow over his shoulders. "Nonetheless, Minerva insists I take reinforcements. Therefore, I'd like the Heads of House to return to their Houses and secure the students—if anyone is unaccounted for, notify me immediately."

McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Aline left the room, though not before Aline had leaned in and whispered something to her husband that made his jaw clench. He kissed her stiffly on the cheek before she elbowed her way through the throng away from him. Great, now she was pissed. Could he not have one freaking day when everything went right? Not one bloody, freaking day? Was it really that much to ask?

The remainder of the teachers stood awkwardly, awaiting his word. "Bayly, you will go along with me. Firenze, I'm afraid the pipe will not allow for comfortable entry to the tunnel for your…particular body type, so I'd appreciate it if you waited at the entrance to make sure no one escapes while we are down there. Madam Pomfrey, please return to the infirmary, we may need your expertise later." He surveyed the rest of the instructors, shrugged with a weary sigh, and said, "Anyone else who wishes to come, follow me."

They trooped along silently to the second floor bathroom—silent save for the clacking of the centaur's hooves and the tromping of boots. Before entering, they all drew their wands. When Severus turned to address them one final time, he was surprised to see Minerva in their midst. "Professor, I thought you'd gone to your House," he said with a caustic edge to his tone.

She shrugged and patted her hair one final time. "I asked Septima Vector to take my place. One never knows when one's proficiency in particular skills may come in handy."

"Yes, one never knows," growled Snape, grabbing the door handle and nearly wrenching it off its hinges. He stalked inside and right over to the sink that housed the chamber. Without thinking, he hissed in parseltongue, "_Open up._"

To the amazement and, frankly, horror of all those present save Bayly, who was aware of the man's ability since his travail with the diaries, the sink swung aside to reveal the large, dark pipe leading to the abyss. Minerva stepped forward warily, pointing with a shaking finger. "How—how did you do that? You were speaking parseltongue!"

"A newly acquired talent," he answered brusquely. Damn it! He should have been more careful about that. No one at school knew what he'd been through—no one except Bayly and Aline.

"Tis a vile tongue that does no man good," Trelawney intoned, managing to look trance-like as she stared in awe. Then again, she often passed for trance-like at her best. She waved her hands in the air in front of her, as though trying to touch an ephemeral being. "I think it wise I guide the investigation, as my gift of divination may come into play." She didn't notice Firenze roll his eyes behind her.

"It's just a language. I don't know why everyone gets so bent out of shape over it," Bayly said, becoming perturbed. "And Professor Snape is leading."

Severus touched Bayly's shoulder and gave the smallest upturn of one corner of his mouth, so slight many would not notice it. Bayly's eyes shone back at his mentor; he didn't need to say anything, it was fully understood between them. Severus said plainly so that none might pretend not to understand, "I will go in first. We'll meet at the bottom of this shaft and split into pairs to canvass the passages below. If there is a student in the chamber, do not harm him, but do subdue and capture him. Keep on your guard."

So saying, Snape took a deep breath, positioned himself over the tunnel, and let himself go. He slid easily down the long, winding pipe to land with a jarring thud on his bum, in a dark, slimy stone tunnel littered with the bones of small animals and the old shed shin of the basilisk, which seemed enormous. Wishing he'd removed his outside robe, which was twisted and clinging to him, he quickly moved aside, lest the oncoming teachers slam into him. Bayly came next, and sprang away upright the instant his feet touched the ground, to Snape's chagrin. Minerva landed in a puddle of emerald robes, and for a moment Severus feared she'd broken one or more of her surely brittle bones, but she rolled over and started to heave herself up. Sibyll came rushing down the chute immediately behind her, and crashed feet first into her back, knocking them both to the floor, in the process flinging Trelawney's glasses across the room where they struck the stone floor and shattered.

"Was that really necessary, Sibyll?" snapped Minerva, pushing herself away from the other and getting to her feet. She huffed and brushed her robes down.

"Probably not. I was anxious to be started," conceded Sibyll. "_Accio_ glasses!"

Bayly, who'd run to retrieve the lenses before she called for them, hurriedly repaired them with a quick spell before handing them to the woman, who reached out helplessly as though blind. She didn't seem to notice he was there till she'd put the glasses on her face.

Madam Hooch scooted down the pipe howling with glee, and when she hit the bottom she exclaimed, "That is one wild ride! Wish I could bring my broom down here."

Once Sinistra had made the trip, all were present. Together they proceeded to pick their way along the tunnel to a solid wall, which had carved upon it two entwined serpents with emeralds for eyes. As one, they looked to Snape. Self-consciously he hissed once more in parseltongue and the wall opened up into a tremendous dim corridor lined with huge statues of snakes; two high stone pillars decorated with carved snakes braced the ceiling. The massive statue of Salazar Slytherin they'd all heard about after Harry's trip down here stood at the center, its gaping mouth no longer able to spit forth a basilisk. Speaking of which, the carcass of the colossal beast—or the skeleton, rather—lay in a large pile in the middle of the room. Severus made a mental note to pry loose a fang or two to bring back with him for study, possibly for use in potions of some sort or another.

As they all gazed around in awe, Severus wandered about to inspect the area, and his breath caught in his lungs. There, carved in precise, even strokes around the middle of one of the columns, was a series of unicorns; they danced and pranced and threw their heads back as if laughing. He whipped his head round to another column, hurried over to it, and sure enough, there were more unicorns. He traced the outlines as a shiver ran up his spine. There existed no doubt that Salazar Slytherin hadn't done this; that left one person who'd had years to come and go in the chamber as a boy: Tom Riddle. A silly boy's tribute to the girl of his dreams…it almost made him feel sorry for Tom, for the single human part of him that had once existed. Unwillingly he found himself glancing at Minerva, who'd also obviously taken note of the unicorns decorating the posts. Her face had paled to the color of bleached parchment.

Severus cleared his throat to gain everyone's attention. "There are many pipes leading from here, and we must walk the length of them to make sure they are all clear. If you see anything that seems out of order, let me know," he said, gripping his wand tightly. "Bayly, you go with Minerva—take the passages to the right. Aurora and Rolanda, take the tunnels to the left." He paused, rolled his eyes heavenward, and said, "Sibyll, you'll come with me, into the statue's mouth." _Just to make sure you don't do anything foolish._

They paired up to do as instructed, every wand at ready. Sybill pulled her shawl about her and shoved her glasses up higher onto her nose as she traipsed behind Severus toward the giant face of Slytherin. "Can you speak to him?" she asked suddenly.

"Speak to whom?"

"Slytherin," she said patting the great stone face as they neared the open mouth.

"He's dead, so I think not," answered Snape curtly.

"I mean speak to this statue—maybe it can talk back," she offered, looking hopeful. She'd turned her head to look at him as she spoke, only to forthwith run smack into the side of the wall, nearly knocking herself out. She staggered back, swaying, as Severus gripped her about the waist and lowered her to the ground.

"Perhaps you ought to wait here," he suggested in his not-really-a-suggestion tone. "Attempt communication at will."

Severus slipped in through the mouth of Slytherin, where the basilisk had lain for ages waiting to be loosed. There wasn't much to see, really, just a rather large nest of sorts composed of old rotted bundles of straw. He poked about for a few minutes to be certain, and was on the verge of returning to the main body of the chamber to explore the tunnels at the far end when he heard Professor Trelawney speaking.

"Doom and death! I foresaw it, I prophesied it, and lo, it has come to pass!"

With his heart in his own mouth, Severus shot back through the opening, wand ready to strike, and stopped so abruptly he fell to one knee. "Oh, crap."


	47. Hero or Villain

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 47 (Hero or Villain)

**November 7, 2000**

Severus slipped in through the mouth of Slytherin, where the basilisk had lain for ages waiting to be loosed. There wasn't much to see, really, just a rather large nest of sorts composed of old rotted bundles of straw. He poked about for a few minutes to be certain, and was on the verge of returning to the main body of the chamber to explore the tunnels at the far end when he heard Professor Trelawney speaking.

"Doom and death! I foresaw it, I prophesied it, and lo, it has come to pass!"

With his heart in his own mouth, Severus shot back through the opening, wand ready to strike, and stopped so abruptly he fell to one knee. "Oh, crap."

There in the middle of the chamber, as casual as you please, Harry Potter strolled along with his ginger friend. He lifted a hand in greeting at Professor Trelawney, who apparently took it as an act of aggression and pointed her wand at him, her hand trembling.

Severus burst out of Salazar Slytherin's stone mouth, sorely tempted to wave his own wand in a most definitely unfriendly manner that would eliminate setting eyes on the brat-who-refused-to-die ever again. He stormed across the floor shouting, "Potter, you insufferable prat! You opened the chamber, didn't you!" It was not a question, despite the order of the words. The phrase _I should have known_ hung so heavy in the air it was almost palpable.

"Well, yeah," Harry answered, looking puzzled. "How else would I get in?"

Sibyll took a few tentative steps forward, squinting through her coke-bottle lenses. "Sorry there, Potter, I thought you were Tom Riddle," she said sheepishly. "I guess I ought to have known Riddle wouldn't travel with a Weasley, but one never knows, now, does one?"

"Do I look like Tom Riddle?" asked Harry indignantly.

Trelawney shrugged, still wearing her goofy smile. "A little."

"Why did you do it?" demanded Severus, ignoring Trelawney's prattling. "Have you an inkling of the trouble you've stirred up?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said. "I was asked to come."

"Really?" sneered Snape, crossing his arms over his thin chest, tilting his head, and settling back for a certain-to-be-less-than-impressive, feeble yarn. "And what moron invited you to come traipsing into the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Moaning Myrtle came and got him," Ron piped up, not wanting to be left out.

"Moaning Myrtle," Severus repeated slowly, his pinched face pointed at Potter. "She just _happens_ to know where you'll be at any given moment?"

"Well, I—I don't know how she knew where I was," Harry admitted, his confused expression returning and morphing into a look of unease. "She showed up at Grimmauld Place and said the chamber had been opened and I ought to come."

"I follow you sometimes," came the high, whiny voice from somewhere near the ceiling. Myrtle came floating down and swirled around Harry, leering and winking. "I miss the time we spent at Hogwarts, so I tracked you down. It's not so hard, really. Ghosts are always willing to lend a hand to another ghost." Her wraithlike finger stroked his cheek and he recoiled in disgust.

"What exactly did you hope to accomplish by showing up?" asked Severus, not willing to let it lie.

"He's one of the only people to ever be in the chamber," Ron volunteered, earning him a hard glare from the Headmaster. He quickly backed up and set to studying the floor. Nice design…lots of…snakes. Snakes everywhere. At least they weren't spiders.

"I didn't know anyone would be in here. I came to open it for you," Harry said in his own defense. "Which begs the question—how did you get in?"

"Not your business," Severus huffed back.

"He speaks parseltongue," Trelawney interjected, nodding along with herself. "I sensed it long ago, but not till today was it confirmed."

"Yes, a parselmouth," Myrtle squealed, flying back and forth in agitation at Harry's brush-off. "Headmaster Snape is multi-talented."

Harry and Ron were too busy gaping like slack-jawed idiots to listen to the witch or the ghost. "You—why—did Dumbledore know?" Harry sputtered.

"He claims it is a recent development," said Sibyll with a disbelieving eyeroll.

Severus refrained from some unsavory language directed at the three of them. It was bad enough this whole episode was happening; he didn't need it to be made public knowledge, including the fact that he now spoke snake language. He harboured no doubt that Potter and the professors would declare it abroad within hours, making his life that much more difficult. "The important thing is this: if you are not the one who opened the chamber earlier today, we have another parselmouth among us, and this person may be dangerous."

Harry threw back his shoulders and stood a bit taller. Dangerous? He'd fought and defeated the most dangerous wizard in the world—sure with loads of assistance, but why should he fear another, less powerful wizard? "I came to help. What can I do?"

_Stay out of the way_, was the first thought that came to mind. However, it wouldn't hurt to have more bodies to search the tunnels and pipes, right? He didn't relish the thought of spending all day in this damp, musty place. "We're searching the entryways for intruders. If you—"

"There's no one there," Myrtle cooed as she flitted down next to Harry again, batting her eyes. "I flew through all the pipes and didn't see anyone except the search teams."

"When?" asked Severus in disbelief.

"A few minutes ago. Unlike body-dwellers, I can jump from one tunnel to another, and am not constrained by walking," Myrtle retorted, smirking. Harry smiled at her snarky reply, making her radiate bliss.

Snape paused to think. This was both good and bad news. There was no intruder to deal with…but that didn't mean one didn't exist. In fact, it only meant they had to be even more cautious and on guard, since they had no idea who the culprit was. "Myrtle, would you mind finding the searchers and telling them to return here?"

She pouted briefly, then nodded. "Want to come along, Harry?"

"I…er…well, I should stay and see what's going on," Harry stammered.

"Suit yourself." Myrtle did a back flip in the air and soared into the nearest tunnel.

Snape turned his back on the golden duo. He needed to think, and he couldn't do that with Potter's spiky black head just begging to be slapped. Not that Harry had done anything, per se—but he would. He always did. A preemptive slap might do him good and save a lot of trouble in the long run.

Back to the matter at hand: who had come into the chamber? No teacher had reported any students absent, which was once more not conclusive. Whoever it was probably left before the teachers got here, which explained the closed chamber. The nagging query that tugged at his brain was this: what had this person hoped to accomplish in coming here? Would a student risk expulsion to satisfy curiosity? That didn't explain the ability to speak parseltongue; as far as he was aware, none of the students had that gift. Damn it, he couldn't even think with that blasted noise in the background!

"Must you chatter on about such inanities?" he scowled at the two young men.

Harry and Ron ceased talking about Quidditch and stood there in awkward silence, waiting for the remainder of the professors to arrive. Finally Harry said, "We can notify the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; I'm sure they'd be happy to get involved."

"Yeah, they could come and investigate, and we'd get to—" Ron began. He shut up and stepped backward two paces at the Headmaster's death glare. Had Snape been practicing extra hard since they'd left school? It was a particularly fierce expression…

"The last thing we need at Hogwarts is a stream of aurors parading about, pretending to know anything about Tom Riddle or the Chamber of Secrets," Severus snapped. Huh. Where had that come from? Residual diary? "There is no point in alerting the public and frightening them over what could very well be nothing but a mischievous student. There is no longer a basilisk, so that angle presents no threat."

"But you said a minute ago that the person who opened the chamber could be dangerous," Harry countered.

"And bringing a hoard of people in here will only drive this person further underground," Severus reasoned. "If we are to find him, we must do so with stealth. Look it up," he added, smirking.

"I know what it means," Harry answered, twisting his mouth.

"Then we are in accord; you will say nothing to anyone about this."

"I didn't say that," Harry began. Then he smirked back at his ex-Potions teacher. "I agree—if you make me part of the investigation."

Snape's hand trembled with a desire to begin smacking. He understood Potter well enough to know he'd open that big mouth and blab to everyone in earshot unless he got his way. If the culprit got wind that he was being stalked, he'd disappear, only to reappear at the most inopportune time. Dislike for Potter aside, would it really hurt to have another parselmouth on the case? Everyone adored the Brat-Wonder, they'd be only too happy to spill their guts to him…unlike Severus, who frankly had cultivated his fearsome persona to the degree that he'd more likely elicit pants-wetting than information.

"Agreed," he muttered at last. "Once I've spoken to the professors, come to my office and we'll draw up a plan for _covertly_ interviewing students and possibly relatives. Covert—another word you may need to look up." He smiled inwardly at Harry's scowl. "And remember, Potter, this is my operation and we will do it my way. If I catch you using that cloak of yours or—I'd better not catch you going behind my back. Enough said."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**November 8, 2000**

"Jacinta, I'm so happy for you—and for you, Theo!" Glenna hugged her daughter, then moved over to embrace the young man. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to propose."

Theo ducked his head, glancing at his fiancée. "I would have asked a year ago, if I thought she'd say yes."

"I wasn't ready," Jacinta said in her own defense before her mother could press her on the issue. "Daddy, aren't you going to say anything?"

Jack came forward and hugged his girl, lifting her off the floor. A hint of wetness shone in his eyes. "I always hoped for this. My daughter and the son of my best friend. Have you been to Theo's family yet?"

"No," she answered, settling back onto the floor. "We were going there next."

"Don't forget the public announcement," said Glenna. "Since Theo works for the _Daily Prophet_, he can make sure of a decent article about your engagement."

"We wanted our families to know first," said Theo.

"Including Papa," Jacinta added. "We have to talk to him before we announce it."

"Well, come here, let me see that ring," Glenna laughed.

"Theo, would you like to share a celebratory drink?" asked Jack. He'd already poured one firewhiskey from a decanter on the sideboard. He handed it to the young man and poured one for himself, then the two went into the living room to chat to let the women ooh and aah over the details.

"I'm so excited, you'd think I was the one getting married!" Glenna exclaimed as she seated herself at the kitchen table with Jacinta beside her. "Have you decided on a date?"

"No, we haven't got that far," Jacinta admitted, averting her eyes and lowering her voice. "Mama, can I talk to you about something?"

"Of course," Glenna said, her brows dipping. The young witch seemed far too serious for such a joyous occasion. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing—I mean, it's not wrong, exactly," Jacinta hedged.

"Are you having second thoughts? If you are, you need to tell Theo."

"No, it's not that, Mama." Jacinta picked up a biscuit from the plate on the table and began to crumble it bit by bit. "I…we…two nights ago we…did it."

Glenna hesitated, not entirely sure she fully understood. Jacinta had had boyfriends at Beauxbatons, but she'd never, by her own admission, allowed any of them to get further than a kiss. Glenna had assumed it was different with Theo, since it had lasted for two years, and the kids seemed so happy together, and yet it sounded strange to hear the words. "You and Theo had sex? Is this the first time?"

Jacinta nodded, blushing. "We were drunk, I didn't mean to do it."

"Are you sorry for it?" asked Glenna.

The younger witch shrugged and sighed. "I don't know—yes. I mean, I wasn't even in control of myself. I wanted to be a virgin when I got married. Too late for that."

Neither of them noticed Jack in the doorway, backing up slowly with a terrible glint in his cold blue eyes. He strode up to Theo, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and dragged the protesting man from his seat toward the front door. He flung open the door, pulled Theo outside, and threw him so hard against the brick wall his head bounced off it.

"What are you—" was all Theo got out.

"You little rat bastard!" Jack thundered, balling a fist. "I never thought my best friend's son would betray my trust this way!"

Theo rubbed the back of his head, and brought his hand away bloody. "Mr. Mulciber, I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're gonna play this to the hilt, aren't you?" Jack sneered, gripping the lad's shirt and part of his scant chest hair in an iron grasp, and shaking him so he winced. "You're gonna pretend you didn't propose to my daughter to get in her knickers!"

Guilt and a rush of acrid fear washed over the young man. Jack knew! How did he know? Without thinking of the consequences of his argument, Theo gushed, "I didn't! We shagged before I proposed."

Obviously this was not what Jack wanted to hear. He swung his fist, which connected with Theo's jaw in a resounding whack that banged Theo's head on the bricks again. "You will not take advantage of my daughter! I should beat you to a bloody pulp! How dare you—"

"Daddy, stop it!" Jacinta ran forward to insert herself between the men, only to have Jack easily brush her aside.

"Don't worry, darling, I'll take care of it," he said, readying for another blow.

"No!" shrilled Jacinta, this time shoving him hard enough to knock him off balance. "Don't hurt him!" She leapt into Theo's arms both as a protecting force and a comforting one.

"Jack, what are you doing?" Glenna said as she joined them on the porch, where they'd heard a commotion. "Theo, you're bleeding." She took out her wand to recite a spell Severus had taught her many years ago, one she'd used on her children over the years when they fell down and scraped themselves. In a matter of seconds, the trickle of blood from Theo's lips had dried, the bruising on his jaw reversed. She then turned her attention to the gash on the back of his head.

"He's beating up Theo," Jacinta tattled, glowering at him. "It's not fair, he knows Theo won't fight my dad."

"Let him fight, I relish the opportunity to kick his arse," said Jack. Being strong of build, unlike the slight, wiry Theodore, he had little fear of losing.

"What is this about?" demanded Glenna, facing her husband. "A few minutes ago everything was fine, now you're pounding your future son-in-law."

"A few minutes ago I didn't know he'd raped her," Jack snapped.

"I did not!" Theo howled.

"He did not!" Jacinta cried.

Jack faced his daughter, wrath oozing from his pores. "I heard you tell your mother you were drunk, and you didn't want to do it. What am I supposed to glean from that?"

"Well, yes, we were drunk," admitted Jacinta, positioning herself so as to not leave Theo open for attack. "But it was consensual. If you have a problem with Theo, you have a problem with me!"

Theo opened his mouth to speak, then wisely shut it again. Anything he said would not be taken well by Mr. Mulciber at this point in time, and honestly he didn't care for the idea of a fist in his mouth.

"Jack." Glenna took his arm and carefully led him a few steps away. "He did not rape her, and I think you know that. If you're upset that they're having sex, isn't that hypocritical? We were much younger than they are when we started shagging."

"And Snape got you up the duff," retorted the wizard. "Is that what you want for Jacinta? This kid wants his fun, then he'll leave her to deal with a baby and all the shame. You want her to ruin her life?"

Jacinta looked at the man, tears hanging in the corners of her eyes. "Is that what I did to you, Daddy? Ruined your life?"

"Of course not!" he barked back, then softened his tone, and his eyes on her held only adoration. "I love you, I always have. You and your mother and your siblings are my life. This is different."

"How is it different?" asked Jacinta, finally letting go of her fiancé and moving toward her dad. "Theo loves me. He's not going to leave me no matter what."

"I won't leave her, I promise you that," Theo chimed in.

"Are you pregnant?" asked Jack point blank, ignoring Theo as if he weren't there.

"I…I don't know. It's too early to know, but I saw a medi-witch before coming here, and she said judging by my cycle, probably not. Please don't say anything to Papa, he'll—" A look of terrified comprehension crossed her features and she broke down in tears, yet gasped out, "He warned Theo not to touch me, and he'll kill him."

Glenna made a move for her daughter, but Theo beat her to it, scooping her into his arms, rocking her back and forth and cooing softly in her ear. "It's okay, honey. He won't find out. We won't say anything, and it's not like he reads minds for fun. We'll just be careful not to look into his eyes whenever the thought enters our heads."

"None of us will say anything," Glenna confirmed, nudging her husband with her elbow. "Isn't that right, Jack?"

"I guess," Jack replied sullenly. Sure, he wasn't pleased, but he loved Nott like a brother—and truth be told, he loved Theo. He'd known the boy from the time he was born; he wouldn't deliberately do anything to get Nott's kid smashed like a bug. Unless he was the one doing the smashing….

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Dolph was tired and excited and dirty—and having the time of his life. Up on a tall ladder at the sixth floor window to an apartment building, he kicked in the glass with his booted foot and ducked as the air spilled out in a hot rush. Below him, amid the din of evacuees shrieking and sirens blaring, he heard men shouting, yet was unable to hear what they were saying and not really caring. He highly doubted they were cheering him on; it wasn't the firefighters' way. If they wanted him to come down, he had no intention of doing so, which was why he refused to look at them. If he didn't hear them, he couldn't be blamed for disobeying, could he?

Connelly and Witherspoon had gone up the stairs inside to try to access the flat from that route; he'd been assigned to pump water, which he'd done for several minutes, till it became clear it wasn't making a dent, and the fire was about to engulf the building. There was someone still in there according to a woman shrieking loudly below, and if that person were to be saved, it was now or never.

Dolph secured his face mask and plunged headfirst into the room, his wand in his gloved hand. While tempted to cast an extinguishing spell to put out the fire completely, it was just too obvious that muggles couldn't accomplish such a thing, making him suspect, so he cast a jet of clear water that streamed from his wand, dousing the entire area in a matter of seconds.

"Is anyone in here?" he bellowed.

With the roar of flames in his ears, he couldn't tell whether he'd received an answer or not. He pressed ahead in the smoky room, using his wand for light as he checked the floor. Ahead to the right he saw a door; it was hot, so he shot through it with a _deprimo_. It wobbled and fell off its hinges onto the floor. He stepped over it into another smoky room and called again. No reply. The floor beneath his feet squeaked, letting him know he had very little time.

"_Homenum revelio!_" A wavering image of a human flitted overtop the bed. When he called once more and the person didn't budge, he growled, "F—k this. _Accio_ muggle tenant!"

From under the bed, a five-year-old girl came flying so fast Dolph almost failed to catch her. Her limp body slammed into him, making him reflexively wrap his arms around her. Since no other bodies had answered the summons, he bolted back the way he'd come, only to see the other two firefighters in the doorway of the flat, making their way toward him. He slid his wand into his pocket as he ran for the ladder, using one hand to hold the girl, the other to wave the men away.

He hurried out the window and onto the ladder, where he carefully stepped down rung by rung, the child's weight barely noticeable, the cheering from below deafening. When he'd reached the ground, he laid the girl down gently on a waiting gurney. For a brief second he feared he'd have to perform CPR on the rugrat, but the medics thanked him as they pushed him aside to attend the child. To his dismay, he actually hoped the kid would be alright, though for the life of him he didn't know why he cared…except that was the prime reason he was doing this. Why did he have to remind himself of that? He was a firefighter to save lives _first_, for the thrill of it _second_. Muggle adulation meant nothing to him, and all he wanted now was to get the hell out of here and go home.

He nonchalantly removed the face mask and returned to his duties of putting out the fire; his eye caught the crowd still gathered around to gawk and cheer, and his heart froze. He knew that man in the front row, knew him very well! Leaving his post, he stormed to the curb and barked, "What the f—k are you doing here?"

Marshal returned a disgusted grimace at the soot-covered face, unaware of who was addressing him until he recognized the voice, then broke into a grin. "Hey, Dolph! Fancy meeting you here. First-rate save of the kid, by the way!"

As inconspicuously as possible, Dolph grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the rest. Evidently it wasn't very inconspicuous, because he glanced up to see his superior giving him a hard look, and he let go of Marshal to hiss, "I asked you a question!"

"It's a fire," Marshal replied, shrugging. "Everyone else is watching, why can't I?"

"You don't even live here," Dolph rasped. He sorely wanted to get Marshal alone to discuss this, the implications of his presence at this precise moment. The words came out before his mind processed them. "Did you start this fire?"

"Why would I do that?" asked Marshal in answer.

"Did. You. Start. It?"

Marshal leaned in so close he looked ready to kiss Dolph on the cheek, but instead whispered in his ear, "Can you prove I did?"

It took all Goodman's willpower not to knock him on his arse. "You stupid son of a bitch, I could've died in there! What are you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking because I didn't do it, wanker," Marshal replied caustically. "Why do you always think the worst of me?"

"Maybe because it's your style," hissed Dolph, with another glance at his coworkers. "You like to think you're doing noble work, like evening the score or exacting revenge when you kill people."

Marshal stared unwaveringly at Dolph, which ordinarily wouldn't have bothered him one whit, but this time made his skin crawl in a way he was wholly unfamiliar with. "Some people need killing. I remember a time not so long ago when you'd be right by my side securing justice."

There was a long pause as Dolph said nothing. He couldn't very well dispute that. Until recently, he'd heartily subscribed to the same theory, and he still believed it…he just wasn't going to be the one securing justice anymore. Not as a general rule, anyway—not to say he wouldn't murder someone who direly deserved it for a horrific crime. Damn it, now Marshal was getting into his head!

"I have to get back to work. What are you here for?"

"Just came to see my old friends. Good to know they're glad to see me, too," retorted Marshal. He spun on his heel and walked away, leaving Dolph to head back to his task.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Dolph had barely got in the door of his house when he noticed something different. Food…the smell of something yummy wafting from the kitchen. Thinking it was early for Rab to be off work, he headed into the kitchen and drew up sharply. "You've got to be kidding me."

Marshal turned round from the stove, wearing a yellow apron over his robes. "Yes, it is pretty amazing that I'd forgive you for being such a prick-like tosser, but I'm feeling generous. Are you done being an arsehole?"

"Maybe. What are you doing?"

"Making a dinner to celebrate. I heard the brat you saved will be fine. You're like a hero, I suppose." He turned back to stir a pot of spaghetti sauce.

Dolph came in and leaned on the counter. "I was out of line to say those things to you...and to accuse you of starting the fire."

"Yep, you were." Stir, stir. "You hurt my feelings."

"Now I know you're jerking me around," Dolph said, laughing lightly. Hurt Marshal's feelings? Was that even possible? "So what really brings you here?"

With his back still to the other, Marshal responded, "If you don't want to know, don't ask."

"What kind of answer is that? Now I have to ask!" said Dolph.

Marshal spun around again, sauce-coated spoon in his hand, dripping like heavy blobs of blood onto his apron. "I'm looking for a man I intend to kill."

Heavy silence. "Why?"

"I've got my reasons. Are you going to try to stop me?"

Dolph shook his head slowly. Despite the claims of 'law enforcement officials', Walden Macnair had never murdered without a reason—maybe not a _good_ reason, but he always had one. If this was personal, and it evidently was, there'd be no point in interjecting himself into the mix. What he thought was basically irrelevant, and wouldn't change the outcome. "I'm not your keeper. I trust you know what you're doing. I'd only suggest that if less permanent means would suffice, you try that first."

"Rabby's really rubbing off on you," Marshal commented.

"Yeah, he is. And I think that's a good thing."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

He heard the footsteps approaching, a calm, even staccato of hard shoes on the stone floor. The passageway lit with the dim illumination offered by the tip of a wand. Salazar Slytherin watched the light coming closer, and sat up straight, smiling down at the youth who stopped before him. "Hello again. Is everything going well?"

"Yes, quite well, thank you." The student smiled and settled back, leaning against the wall opposite the portrait. "I've been very busy these past few days, I couldn't come to see you."

"I understand. Schoolwork must come first. I'm rather used to being by myself."

The pupil merely nodded noncommittally. "I know you become lonely here, and I can't blame you. No one else bothers to explore, to find your portrait. I'm glad I did."

"Why is that?" prompted the portrait, giving a knowing look that said he didn't need to hear the answer to know what it would be.

"You know so much about the castle, and about magic," answered the child candidly. "No one else teaches me so much as you."

The aged wizard smiled again. There was no intent to flatter on the child's part, simply stating facts. He liked that, he liked honesty in a relationship…and yes, he also enjoyed the respect that was rightfully his, yet denied him from the vast majority of students through the ages by hiding his portrait here in a labyrinth. "I can't tell you how nice it is to have human company again. It's been a long time."

"You've told me that before," said the student in a blunt, yet not hurtful manner. "Why did they stick your portrait here in the dungeon passageway? The other founders' portraits are in their Houses."

Slytherin grimaced, remembering the acrimony between himself and Godric Gryffindor. He had got along well enough with the other founders, but Gryffindor had always been his strongest opponent, the one who'd convinced Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw to turn against him. "They thought I was evil for not liking the idea of mudbloods tainting our magic and taking over magical society."

The youth shuddered, not from the chill of the dungeon. "They are disgusting creatures. They shouldn't be allowed in Hogwarts."

"Exactly! I was looking out for our kind, since no one else would, and this is how they repaid me—driving me from Hogwarts and hiding my portrait here as an insult to my memory."

The student pushed off from the wall. "You should be hailed as a hero. Take cheer; maybe you aren't the only one looking out for purebloods."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Salazar.

The student started off down the corridor, turned back with a cryptic grin, and said, "You'll find out."


	48. Sheer Torture

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 48 (Sheer Torture)

**October 30, 1980**

"My lord, I have a gift for you!" Lucius, who'd humbled himself in the obligatory fashion, could scarcely stay on his knees, so excited was he with his offering.

From his throne, Voldemort looked curiously down his nose at his follower. "What might that be, Lucius?"

"One of Potter's friends. I have him bound outside."

The very air seemed to take on a life of its own. A gust of wind swirled around Lucius' face in a semblance of a caress. Voldemort got up and…laughed, a high pitched, drawn-out cackle that echoed around the room.

"Bring him in."

Lucius dashed out to where he'd left Pettigrew directly outside the castle, bound with invisible ropes on hands and feet, his mouth gagged with Lucius' handkerchief—an afterthought when the rat man awoke and began pleading. Quite annoying. He levitated Peter through the main chamber into the meeting room and dropped him unceremoniously on the hard stone floor, then yanked the cloth from his mouth. Grimacing at the drool, he glanced about for a place to toss the now-worthless rag; finding none, he flashed his wand and it disintegrated.

Peter lay on his side, trussed like a hog. When he found his mouth free of the handkerchief, he immediately howled, "Oh, please, let me go! I didn't do anything, pl—"

"Shut. Up," Lucius uttered, bending over close to his ear. The wand pointed in Peter's face was a great motivation to obey.

Lord Voldemort sauntered over and circled the prone man, his eyes dancing like scarlet stars in his pallid face. "Name!" he commanded.

"P-P-Peter Pettigrew," he squeaked.

_Pettigrew_! Oh, this just got better and better! Why hadn't Lucius mentioned the name? "Member of the Order of the Phoenix?"

Hesitating for a second too long, eyes wild with fright, Peter replied, "What's that?"

A single nod from Voldemort, and Lucius shot Pettigrew with a very painful, non-lethal spell that made him cry out. The dark lord continued circling him like a vulture as he repeated, "Member of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"I—I don't know what you mean," Peter groaned, struggling against the invisible ropes cutting into his wrists.

This time Lucius didn't wait for the master's signal. He cast a powerful hex that made Pettigrew grow rigid as he screamed from the burning ache all through his body. When at last the screams died down into hoarse choking rasps, he finally lifted his wand.

Leaning down again, Lucius said to the sniveling Pettigrew, "That pain is negligible in comparison to the Cruciatus. Tell the master the truth, or soon you'll find out how badly it's possible to hurt."

"I—I am telling the truth," Pettigrew whimpered, his beady eyes shifting around for an avenue of escape.

When Lucius aimed his wand again, the dark lord waved him away. In a hissed whisper he taunted, "Peter, do you think I—the greatest wizard of all time—am a simpering fool?"

"Who are you?"

Lucius and Voldemort looked at one another in disbelieving astonishment, then both burst out laughing. _Who are you?_ Why didn't he ask 'What color is the sky?'

"How refreshing, a sense of humour," remarked Voldemort to the bewildered captive. "I am Lord Voldemort. Perhaps you're more familiar with the coward's versions, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or You-Know-Who."

"Y-You-Know-Who?" echoed Peter in a distinctly rat-like squeak. He'd begun to tremble violently.

"Answer my question. Are you a member of Dumbledore's silly defiant group?"

"No."

Shrugging as if to say 'I gave you a chance', Voldemort cast a _crucio_ that picked him up momentarily off the floor and dropped him again, thrashing and shrieking. He watched the torture with great delight, lifting his wand only to keep the captive alive.

"We already know the reality of the situation, Peter. What does it gain you to lie to me? Nothing but pain. Because I am merciful, I'll give you one more chance." His wand leveled at Peter's head. "Tell me the truth."

"I am! I am a member!" Peter screeched, terrified of being _crucio_'d again.

"There, that was easy," cooed Voldemort. "Now I have another question. Where are James Potter and his spawn?"

"I don't know!"

Voldemort threw a curse that dragged Pettigrew across the floor and slammed him into a stone wall. The next instant, the bonds fell from his limbs, he was raised upward and pinioned to the wall, spread eagle. "You only make it harder on yourself."

A sharp gasp from across the room cut the air. Bellatrix stormed in with angry staccato clicks of her high heels. "What am I missing? Master, you're torturing a prisoner without me?" She sounded deeply offended.

"You weren't here, Bellatrix," Voldemort answered smoothly.

Large tears formed in the corners of the woman's eyes. "You could have called me." She actually began to sniffle.

"Get a life, Bella," Lucius interjected, unwisely it seemed.

Her piteous countenance changed in a heartbeat to ferocious, and her wand materialized in her hand. Nearly shaking with fury, she approached him, wand at ready, and demanded, "Why are _you_ here when the master didn't even summon _me_?"

Calmly ignoring her threatening posture, Lucius curled his lip at her. "I'm the one who captured the runt, _Bella_. I've been working for weeks to prove my allegiance by finding a friend of Potter, and here he is." He conveniently neglected to mention he'd been after her dear cousin, and settled for Pettigrew when he opened Sirius' door. She might take it in her crazy head to look for Sirius herself, thereby diminishing _his_ contribution. "Now haul your ill-clad little rump out of the way so we can continue."

"This outfit wasn't cheap, Malfoy!"

The two glared at each other for several seconds, then Bella lowered her wand. They turned their attention to Pettigrew, who was watching the scene with interest as much as fear. When he saw the three of them appraising him, a wet stain began to grow on the front of his trousers.

"Lovely," Lucius murmured, rolling his eyes.

"That's the kind of terror our lord inspires," Bella crowed, breaking into an hysterical laugh.

Voldemort's thin lips smirked and he said to Bella, "Would you like to interrogate our friend Peter? He doesn't seem to respond well to us; perhaps your female wiles can convince him."

"My greatest pleasure, my lord!" Again she raised her wand, only to get a confused expression. "What do we want to know?"

Sighing heavily, Lucius drawled, "Where is the Potter brat?"

"I don't know, I swear!" Peter screamed from the wall, not sure if the question was directed at him or merely a prompt to the nutty, garishly dressed woman. "Nobody knows!"

He screamed all the louder when Bella's curse struck him.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Oct. 30, 1980_

_ Lucius has come through once again. It signals his fervour, his loyalty to me and dedication to our cause. I am very pleased with him. I must admit I am surprised at his audacity, in broad daylight approaching the scum, taking him down, and bringing him to me. He has brought me one of James Potter's dear friends, who surely has an idea of where the Potters are hiding. We can torture him into giving us the bastard's whereabouts. Once we know that, it is a mere skip and a spell to eliminate the baby and be done with the damned prophecy._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**November 10****, 2000**

Severus pushed down a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Standing at the front door to Malfoy Manor, he fidgeted from one foot to the other in a way he'd not be caught dead doing in front of another human being. He didn't want to be here right now, he didn't want to do what he must to find out the truth. He wasn't even entirely sure he wanted to know the truth. All these years he'd never suspected that Lucius had been involved in this…that he'd been the one to bring Pettigrew to the dark lord, that he'd been instrumental in the rat's conversion to the dark side, as it were. And in Lily's eventual death because of it. He hesitated, raised a fist, let it drop, then firmed his resolve and pounded on the wooden door.

Sisidy opened the door to his knock, peering up at him and giving an odd expression that twisted her grotesque features comically. "Mister Severus never comes to the door. Mister Severus uses the floo." She stood there patting down her pillowcase dress as if waiting for him to go away and come in the usual manner.

"May I come in?" asked Snape. "I need to speak to Lucius."

Sisidy blinked her tennis ball sized eyes, then moved aside and shut the door behind him. "You goes in the parlor. Sisidy fetches Master Malfoy." She turned on the spot and a loud pop signaled her disapparation. A mere minute later she was back, Lucius in tow.

Lucius entered the parlor with Sisidy hanging at his heels. He waved her away, so she padded to the sideboard to pour drinks for her beloved master and his guest. Severus was perched uncomfortably on one of the wingchairs, and he looked up as Lucius entered. Malfoy walked over to shake his hand, smiling as he said, "Severus, it's good to see you. I can't say I expected you in the middle of the day; don't you have Headmaster duties or something?"

"Yes, I do," answered Snape, distracted. Small talk was only getting in the way, making him waver in a way that made him want to vomit on himself for his namby-pamby-ness. "I need to ask you something…no, I need to know something…I…"

Malfoy smirked as he said, "Not up to your usual eloquence. Could you be a tad more specific?"

"I was reading in Voldemort's diary, the day before Halloween in 1980. You caught Peter Pettigrew and took him to the dark lord."

The smirk faded and Lucius lowered himself into the chair opposite his friend. The past. How he loathed dredging up the past, with all its distasteful memories. Warily he nodded. "Yes, that's right."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Long, highly awkward pause. Lucius sucked in a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. "I couldn't. We—Bella and I—were the only ones who knew, aside from Voldemort himself. He demanded secrecy, and as you're aware, it wasn't shrewd policy to buck his orders."

"After Voldemort was gone you could have told me," Severus persisted.

"Why?" demanded Lucius, suddenly flaring into hostility. "Why would I do that? So you could blame me for the mudblood's death? I wasn't there, I had nothing to do with it!"

"You captured Pettigrew," Severus said evenly, not even raising his voice. "And I thought you decreed that no one was to use that word in this house again."

"Don't lecture me in my own home, Severus. We needed to know where Potter was hiding—dammit, we were trying all along to find him so the master could kill him, you know that!" He swallowed in one large gulp the firewhiskey Sisidy handed to him, and held out the glass for another. "Lily wasn't supposed to be hurt, he'd promised you…"

Severus didn't answer, he merely sat quietly, drink in hand, making his friend all the more agitated by his silence.

Lucius knocked back the second drink, feeling it burning down his throat and into his belly. At last the warmth spread to his brain and he felt the sense of release, of fuzzy calm associated with alcohol consumption. He let out another long sigh. "Fine, you want the full story: here it is. I had a million things on my mind. Here it was, the day before Halloween, and the next day we were hosting a party, Draco's big introduction to society…"

_For almost five months the Malfoys had kept the child out of the public eye, but people were beginning to talk, beginning to wonder if they'd birthed a squib—or worse. Must put those rumours to rest._

_ Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort was breathing down the necks of his most trusted Death Eaters, harassing them at all hours and demanding to know what progress had been made in finding the Potter brat. To Lucius' knowledge, every avenue had been explored, every possibility scoured. They seemed to have dropped off the Earth._

_Lucius had begun to worry that if Potter weren't found soon, the dark lord might resort to more creative incentives to entice his followers to try harder…and it made his heart almost shrivel to think those 'incentives' might include harming his family. He knew for a fact that the dark lord had punished Death Eaters in the past by massacring their loved ones, and he had no intention of joining that group. He despised the idea of killing a baby, but when it came right down to it between his child or Potter, he chose Draco._

_ With that in mind, he'd worked tirelessly for weeks searching for the one that he knew would possess the whereabouts of James Potter: his best friend and fellow blood traitor, Sirius Black. For obvious reasons Lucius kept his investigations quiet from Narcissa, who for some reason still cared about the turncoat. Nor had he told Severus, whose sickening obsession with Potter's wife was disconcerting, to say the least. No one, in fact, had been made privy to his quest, not even Lord Voldemort himself._

_ Today his relentless toil had paid off. There in an unassuming folder at the Ministry of Magic was the break he'd been looking for, a form signed by Sirius Black himself. Lucius lifted the parchment out of its place, savoring the moment._

_Date: 23 July 1980_

_Client: S. Black_

_Reason for service: malfunctioning floo_

_ There was no cause to believe Black had changed his residence even though the Potters had done so numerous times. If the address on this form was correct, he'd have no trouble locating and capturing the prick, and subsequently delivering him as a prize to Lord Voldemort, raising his own status substantially. He shook his head, grinning. Who knew a simple request for floo service would be documented and filed at the Ministry for future reference?_

_ Lucius showed up at the door, wand in hand but hidden in the folds of his cloak. He fully expected to blast Black the second he opened the door…only he didn't open the door. A short, pudgy, rat-faced man stood there instead._

_ Taken aback slightly, Malfoy quickly regained his composure. "I'm looking for Sirius Black."_

_ "He's not here right now," answered the other._

_ "But he does live here?"_

_ "Yes. He'll be back later, I was just—" The man glanced down at a sandwich in his hand and hurriedly hid it behind his back, stuffing it into his pocket._

_ "And you are?" asked Lucius._

_ "Peter Pettigrew," said Peter, becoming nervous. This blond man looked familiar. Where had he seen him before? In the newspaper from time to time, and…Hogwarts! He was older, he was dating Sirius' cousin! "Aren't you Lucius Malfoy? Sirius hates you!"_

_ "Happy Halloween," smirked Lucius, sending a stupefy that knocked Pettigrew against the doorjamb. Bending over, he dragged Peter outside, shut the door, took hold of the smaller man, and disapparated to Lord Voldemort's castle. Perhaps he wasn't Black, but he was one of the despised Marauders, and member of the Order of the Phoenix. Chances were very good he'd know where to find the Potters, and with a bit of persuasion he'd be begging to tell._

"I was after Sirius, and frankly I thought you'd be happy to hear Black was ensnared," said Lucius, not looking at his friend. "I got Pettigrew instead. That couldn't be helped. I did what I had to do to save my family, and I won't apologize for it."

"My 'sickening obsession with Potter's wife was disconcerting'?" Severus quoted at him, quirking a brow upward.

"To say the least," Lucius intoned, not finding it amusing to have his own words thrown back at him. "I could hardly have confided in you, now could I? You'd have worried about the mu—muggleborn instead of concentrating on getting Potter and his whelp."

"May I ask a final question?" Severus queried. Lucius nodded. "Did you torture Peter into becoming a spy?"

"No. That was Bella and Voldemort. I did cast a few spells on him that first day, but my work pretty much ended at delivering him to the castle and keeping my mouth shut about it."

Severus sipped at the lemonade the elf had handed him. It was too sour and made his mouth pucker a little, though in his present state it was doubtful anyone would notice. Could he really fault Lucius for seizing a Marauder, a good friend of Potter, in order to expedite the process of Potter's death and protect Draco in the process? Wouldn't he have done the same thing to protect Jacinta—and now his two baby sons? Lucius couldn't have known Lily would be killed; Voldemort had, after all, promised to spare her.

"It's likely another Death Eater would have taken one of the Marauders prisoner if you hadn't," Snape conceded slowly. "It was a only a matter of time. Somehow, the Potters would have been found."

"So you're not condemning me?" asked Lucius guardedly.

Severus shook his head and stood up, placing the lemonade on the coffee table. "I was stunned when I read about it, that's all. I needed to hear your side of it, to know you hadn't stabbed me in the back."

"You're the closest thing I have to a brother, Severus. I'd never do that," said Lucius, rising as well. "I am sorry for things that happened in the past, but I try not to relive them. I assume you understand."

"I do…but reading these diaries makes revisiting the past a daily occurrence." He looked at the doorway and back to Lucius. "Speaking of Potters, I have a meeting with one shortly. Later I'll catch you up on what's been going on at the school."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Back to the door as he faced Dumbledore's portrait, Harry lit up like a muggle Christmas tree when the old man entered his frame and settled into the chair with a bowl of assorted sweets on his lap. "There you are! I thought you'd gone off visiting."

"Harry, my boy, good to see you. And you, Ron." Dumbledore popped a hard red candy into his mouth and swirled it around. "Mmm, I do love cherry. Well, to the point of the matter, I was visiting. Did you know that in the candy shop in Hogsmeade there is a portrait with bottomless bowls of candy?"

"No, I can't say I knew that," Harry admitted.

"Can I try one?" Ron asked, before blushingly realizing he couldn't very well take a piece from a portrait. "Never mind."

"Professor, did you know Snape was a parselmouth?" asked Harry.

"Not that it should come as a surprise," Ron added, nodding. "Being Slytherin and all."

The room grew several degrees colder along with an icy silence. Ron and Harry exchanged anxious glances, then at last the old wizard spoke in a slow, controlled cadence. "Yes, I was aware of the fact as it developed." He bit into the candy, chewed for a few moments, then swallowed. "He learned it from Voldemort." It wasn't a lie, precisely, and Harry had no real need to know the truth.

"It's kind of freaky," Ron said.

"But your best friend having the same ability is somehow 'cool'?" came a sarcastic drawl from the doorway where Severus stood listening to the conversation. It made him smirk to see the two youths jump and twirl about to face him. Ah, it did his heart good to be able to instill fear even now. "I assume you have news to report to me about your…spying endeavours?"

Harry shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. "Not really. We talked to the whole Gryffindor House, but no one mentioned anything unusual."

"And no one spoke in snake language," added Ron, who ducked when Severus threw the nearest book on his shelf at the young man. "Sorry. Isn't that what you wanted to know?"

"I want to know you aren't barging in there like morons and demanding that people confide all their secrets to you!" Snape snapped back. "_I_ could do that with as much success as you've had."

"Professor, we didn't do that," said Harry, moving out of the line of fire. "We just talked like friends. I did find out a sixth year has been cheating in Divinations class."

Not interested in how one might cheat in such a class, Severus merely rolled his eyes. "Brilliant. Perhaps someone who isn't a charlatan can peek into a crystal ball and give me some answers as to who opened the bloody Chamber of Secrets!"

Hurrying to appease the man, Harry mumbled, "This weekend when the kids go to Hogsmeade, we're going to 'accidentally' meet them there and see what we can find out. We might be able to follow someone…or something. Maybe we ought to go to the Great Hall for supper and talk to the Ravenclaws."

"You do that," Severus grumbled, stalking to his desk, flinging himself into the chair, and glaring at the pair. "Try to be subtle. I know that's like asking a hammer not to dent your skull when it strikes, but _try_."

"_This_ coming from the master of subtle," Ron whispered, poking Harry in the ribs and grinning.

Severus menacingly lifted another volume from the top of his desk and weighed it in his hand. "I have excellent hearing, Weasley. Would you like to see if I also have excellent aim at short range?"

"We'll go now," said Harry, dragging his mate by the arm toward the door. "When we know anything, I'll be in touch." He bolted out the door lest the book catch him on the back of the head.

Severus slumped over and lowered his face into his hands, elbows propped on the desk. He sighed. What had this world come to that he was reduced to assigning _Potter_ to expose lurid affairs for him? It was enough to make him roll over in his grave, if he were dead. But he wasn't dead, and he needed to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Torture. That was the sole word popping repeatedly into Draco's sweat-plastered head as he hoisted one after another shovelfuls of dragon dung into the barrel, listened to it splat, tried not to gag at the pungent odor. Heavens no, we couldn't use _magic_ to transfer the feces; that might compromise the inherent magical quality, which somehow or other was necessary in its various uses as fertilizer and whatnot. Bullocks. He didn't care whether the poop performed to acceptable standards, as long as he didn't have to be anywhere near it, degrading himself this way! Father would be so ashamed: why, he'd shit a brick. Draco laughed at the irony.

"Draco, here you are," said Borimetchka, ambling over with his ever-present Dragomir in tow. The dragon inched in close to Draco and sniffed him, then sneezed, blowing a stream of fire right past the young man's legs.

Draco didn't even flinch. He'd gotten used to the baby dragon's quirks, including life-threatening sneezes. He casually patted the beast as he said, "Bori, when I said I wanted to get closer to the dragons, this wasn't what I had in mind."

"Close in body, close in mind," intoned the camp boss.

Draco turned his head and rolled his eyes. "I was thinking more along the lines of feeding them and riding them."

"And vhat happens vhen you feed them?" asked Bori, infuriatingly calm.

"They shit," Draco acknowledged, scooping up another load of dung.

"You haf not been feeding them, then?" asked Bori, and went on without waiting for a response. "I vill talk to Charlie."

Goody. Now he'd get to do more work. Draco smiled wanly. "Thanks. Um…how is Oksana doing? I haven't seen her since I got back, except a few times walking alone with Dragomir."

"She ees better." The sad, wistful expression on his face belied that statement. "She has come to love Dragomir, she plays vith him every day. She cooks for me, and she pretends to be fine, but she…she still keeps avay from me…avay from men."

"That's natural, I think," Draco said softly. "As long as she's getting better, even slowly, it's a good thing." He chanced a quick glance at the big man, whose shoulders slumped and brow curved in a gloomy frown. Although Bori had never said so, his affection for Oksana was plain, and this whole situation must be terribly difficult for him. "Would it be alright if I tried talking to her? We were pretty friendly before…"

"If you vish," said the huge man. He tapped his dragon on the rump and pointed at the cabin in the distance. "Go play, Drago. I am in the mood for vork." So saying, he took a shovel from the row leaning against a hitching post, and trudged across the field to another enormous pile of dung.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Across the crowded pub their eyes met. A skittish man, an average-looking bloke in a worn brown suit seated at the bar, hunched over a pint of ale, exhaled and looked back at the surface of the bar, as if the one he'd feared had not materialized and he was free to breathe once more. The other, a tall blond man, held open the door for a few more seconds, then stepped inside and let it swing shut. He walked past the first man, shoved a drunk off the stool beside him, and seated himself. When the lush on the floor protested, he kicked him in the side and threatened him to make something of it if he dared. The drunk crawled off and staggered to his feet toward the loo.

"Fancy meeting you here," said the blond, nudging the other fellow in the side. He made a gesture to the bartender, who brought him a beer.

"Yeah, real unusual," retorted the other. He turned half round on his stool to peer at the corner booth, where two young ladies were conversing as they laughingly fended off male advances.

The blond's eyes followed his line of sight. "You like the birds, yeah?"

"Don't you?" asked the bloke in the brown suit.

"Sure I do. I'll bet I could shag either one of them," he replied, shrugging and lifting his beer.

"Right. Little whores would do it with a guttersnipe," agreed the other.

"You calling me a guttersnipe?" Any pretense of good mood had faded in an instant.

"No! Just sayin' they're tramps is all." Brown-suit hastily turned back to the bar. Under his breath he muttered, "All want the same thing, then bitch and complain to the coppers when you give it to them."

"I know a pub where it's easy to get what you want, with no legal entanglements," said the blond. "You interested?"

Another wistful gaze at the two pretty girls. The brown suited man lifted a brow, his face taking on a hungry, warped glow. "Whatever I like? No restrictions?"

"None." The blond tossed some money onto the bar and headed for the door. "You coming?"

Together they exited; the blond steered them round the corner into an alley, where he pushed the other man roughly up against the wall. "Time to get down to business, muggle."

"Business? You want money?" All at once his face took on a befuddled air. "Where'd the other one go? The blond?"

"Right here." A wave of a wand and a glamour charm again covered the fellow.

"You're—you're a magician?" sputtered the brown-suited man.

"No…but I'm very good at magic, muggle."

"Why do you keep calling me 'Muggle'? It's not my name."

The blond ignored his question, took him by the arm, and apparated from the alley into a cramped, dingy room with cracked plaster walls and weathered wooden floors. A single metal bed frame took up most of the area. "Home, sweet home. Innit, Blackwell?"

"How…how'd we get here? How'd you know my name?" gasped Blackwell. "I changed it after…I changed it."

"After your unfortunate run-in with the law," the other elaborated for him. "Yes, I know. It did make tracking you down a bit harder. I have sorely wanted to demonstrate for you what a real artist can do."

"What?" Blackwell squealed, inching toward the door. "Who are you?"

"You can call me Marshal," said the no-longer-blond, removing his outer robe, revealing strongly built arms and chest beneath his thin shirt. "Don't bother to cry for help, no one can hear you." He flashed his wand and Blackwell landed on the bed with a thump and squeak of springs. From his belt he removed a very long, very sharp knife. "I thought you'd like an up close and personal look at how a professional does it. Oh, yes, it was my job for years. And I excelled at my job."

He approached the screaming man on the bed, whose arms were held by invisible bonds out to the sides, though he continued to kick violently. From the pocket of his trousers he produced a vial, held it up for the man to see, and proceeded to unceremoniously pour the contents into Blackwell's mouth.

As Blackwell gasped and sputtered, Marshal smiled benignly. "You're going to confess your sins to me, and then I'm going to assign penance. That sounds fair, doesn't it?"

"You're insane!"

"I've been called worse." Marshal sat down on the edge of the bed, flipping the knife into the air and catching it repeatedly by the hilt. "Besides, you're hardly one with a right to cast aspersions, yeah?" He slit Blackwell's shirt from neck to belt. "Shall we begin?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

In the deepest recesses of the dungeons, in a long-unused room somewhere down the labyrinth, a girl crouched over a large wooden crate on the stone floor. The room was pitch black, save for the glowing tip of her wand, which failed to illuminate the ages of spider webs streaming from the ceiling, or the thick layers of dust coating the ancient teacher's desk. She brushed aside the crumpled up parchment inside the box and laid her hand on a smooth, almost pulsing object the size of a baby.

"Good, you're still cozy. I was afraid the warming charm hadn't lasted." For good measure she cast another charm upon the orb. "You won't hatch without heat, you know. All those years sitting in the cold, my poor baby. I'm here now, I'll take care of you. Soon, when you come out, I have so much to teach you. You have a very important job."

She patted the egg some more, then got to her feet. "I must go, but I'll be back." She walked to the door, turned back, and said in parseltongue, "_Sleep well, my pet_."


	49. Family Ties

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 49 (Family Ties)

**February 19, 1942**

"I wouldn't bother if it was me," said Claudius, kicking back on Mulciber's bed in the fifth year room and stretching out his legs. "I got all the family I want and then some."

Mulciber reached over and flung the younger boy's feet onto the floor, making him sit up most awkwardly. "Keep your feet off my bed, roach."

Claudius looked as if he meant to engage, but a chilling glance from Tom caused him to avert his eyes and mumble, "Whatever." He scooted to the foot of the bed, where he sat with his legs draped over the far end, his back slightly hunched, his gaze riveted to the floor.

"You've known for a couple of years who they are. Why do you want to go meet them now?" asked Mulciber, turning away from the boy on his bed to face Riddle, who lounged on his own bed.

"What a stupid question!" exclaimed Nott from the doorway, where he'd been listening. He walked in and seated himself on the chair to Riddle's desk. "Everybody wants to know where they came from, who their family is. He wants to meet his grandparents, and hopefully his dad. I don't get why you're both being such pricks."

Mulciber sneered, but said nothing. Lestrange pretended he'd not heard the challenge.

Tom regarded each of his comrades in silence. All of them had differing opinions on his upcoming exploit, each formed by his own life experiences. Lestrange, ever cynical, came from a loveless family where he was merely a prize, an heir, nothing more. He wasted no affection either on his parents or his younger brother. Tom was hard pressed to determine if Claudius was even capable of love. Nott, on the other hand, was the sole product of an arranged marriage wherein his parents had learned to care for one another. He loved both his parents and was adored in return. Mulciber, the most inscrutable of the three, was nonetheless not overly difficult to read. His father was a bully, his mother passive but not without affection for her son; his desire to repeat their pattern of being wed early and producing children that he neither wanted nor needed (except for an heir) rankled, most of all because he understood he had little choice in the matter. One way or the other, sooner or later, he'd end up shackled in matrimony.

Be that as it may, Tom was on the verge of achieving that which he'd secretly dreamed of all his life; he had finally convinced himself that since he had the information on his relatives' whereabouts, he ought to present himself for a visit. Even if they turned out to be less than perfect, how bad could they be? Probably no worse than Claudius' or Lewis' families. He felt a burning longing for some semblance of a family relationship, something he'd never come even close to at the orphanage; truth be told, he privately fantasized that his father would be ecstatic at finding his son alive, yet overcome with remorse at learning his son had been consigned to the orphanage for so long, and would beg forgiveness and insist on bringing Tom home to live. Not that he'd acknowledge this dream to a living soul, of course. That would be weak, and he refused to show weakness to his lessers.

He sat up on his bed, putting on a blank face. It was always best not to let anyone else know the full extent of one's plans. "I don't need to make the decision right now, I only wanted to hear your thoughts on it. If I do go, and if things turn out well, I'll let you know."

"I think you ought to go," urged Nott, ignoring the rolled eyes of the other two.

"I'll take that under advisement," said Tom, offering a small smile. "Let's not speak of it again. I think perhaps Claudius needs to study; we don't need any more professors complaining to your parents."

Claudius snorted as he lifted his head. "Like I give a rat's arse? They only send me here to be rid of me. They don't care what I do."

Tom fixed him with a piercing gaze that held him to his spot. "I care. If we are believed to be underachievers, the teachers will be forced to keep a closer eye on our group. I, for one, prefer to remain low-key so that we may go about our business in peace. Do we understand one another?"

"Yes, Lord Voldemort," Claudius muttered, nodding. He scampered off the bed toward the door. "I have an essay due in Potions."

"I need solitude as well," said Tom, shooing Nott out of his seat. "I can't very well become Head Boy if I don't get excellent marks, can I?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**November 15, 2000**

_Feb. 19, 1942_

_ Although I've known for quite some time about my__ kin, I have put off making an effort to become acquainted with them. Some might say it is from fear of rejection…and perhaps a part of it is. I was, after all, left to languish in an orphanage all these years, and if they are aware of that fact, I can hardly make excuses for them. I must believe they don't know about me. How could any wizard leave his son or grandson in a disgusting muggle habitat? Perchance they will invite me to stay with them; the idea electrifies me in ways I didn't know possible._

_ I can't go yet. It's best I wait till summer—not only because I won't have to explain to anyone where I've gone, but to give me more time to prepare myself. And of course, I am almost ready to unleash the basilisk upon the school, so I don't want any distractions caused by outside forces. I haven't told my followers about my plans for the basilisk, to make sure no word leaks out. Bassy is eager to get on with it, I think. There's no time like the present._

Severus closed the diary, shaking his head as he often did after reading a passage. Bassy? The dark lord had a nickname for the murderous beast, though it hardly came as a shock. What truly startled him was the unvarnished yearning he sensed in Tom, the desire for a family. And yet, it wasn't that he wished to be like everyone else, for he surely did not. He merely wanted to be _wanted_. He honestly couldn't fault Riddle for that, no matter how many flaws he had. If Tom had ever been loved and wanted, would he have turned into the psychopath he later became?

Severus glanced at the clock on the wall. He had better get going, Jacinta's engagement party was to be held tonight—a subdued affair with only family and friends, for the press had gotten their exclusive from Theodore Nott himself days ago. Aline was probably home already, wondering what was keeping him, and he hated to worry her.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Aline looked at her watch and sighed. She wondered how she'd ever managed to teach seven levels of Potions when even teaching _one_ was proving draining now. Perhaps she ought to have waited till January, as planned, when the babies were a few months older and she'd have had more time to recuperate. Instead she'd come back at the beginning of November to teach sixth years, allowing Severus to continue with the seventh years until next semester, when she'd take over the seventh and fifth years as well. She sighed again. If it weren't for Bayly, she'd have been lost.

A stroke of her quill left a bright swath of red across a student's parchment. Although she'd stop short of calling them _idiots_, the pupils could certainly do better than this! She'd graded no less than twelve papers, none of which came close to excellent, let alone outstanding. It was pitiful. Either she'd failed to make the lesson clear, or they'd simply not applied themselves properly; she'd prefer to think it was the latter. Now she'd have to make them re-do the potion, rewrite the essay, and give additional homework out of meanness. She chuckled at the last bit. She was indeed sounding more and more like Severus, and not just the Snape the students feared, but the one she'd encountered herself when applying for the Potions position. Well, maybe Severus was right, maybe they sometimes needed a good kick in the pants to make them understand mediocrity was unacceptable.

She stood up and scooped the ink-riddled papers into the rubbish bin. If they were going to have to do them over, no point in wasting more time becoming frustrated over them. Feeling a little better, she opened her middle desk drawer, capped the Plain Red ink, and set it in its place between the Burgundy and the Scarlet, carefully aligning the labels to all face in the same direction. She set the quill in its holder on the desk, brushed off imaginary dust from the corner, and pushed in her chair.

As she walked to the door, she wrapped her shawl around herself; here in the dungeons, even her outer robe often failed to keep her warm. Perhaps she ought to place a few hints to Severus about it in the hopes he'd buy her some nice warm clothes for Christmas…or Narcissa. Yes, definitely Narcissa if she wanted _nice _robes. Severus did fine with men's wardrobe, but like the rest of the male gender he was virtually clueless as to what witches liked.

A light sound echoed down the corridor right up to the Potions classroom. Something falling…a footstep? Aline looked into the darkened corridor. "Is anyone there?" She received no reply, yet she was not alone, she could feel it. "Students shouldn't be wandering the dungeons alone!" she called out.

Damn. It. She was barely going to be on time for Theo and Jacinta's dinner party as it was, and now she had to go investigate a wayward pupil sneaking off to cause mischief in the labyrinth, and probably to get lost. Flicking her wand into her fingers from the wrist holster, she shot a loud, crashing spell that barreled down the hallway, throwing fist-sized balls of fire which drifted toward the ceiling, suspended at precise intervals to illuminate the corridor quite nicely, even going round corners until it came to a dead end. She veered off from the first passage into another, and stalked along for a few minutes, deeper and deeper into the maze of hallways, pausing to glimpse down side alleys as she went, becoming more agitated as time went on. There were so many ways a person could go, so many passages that branched out like spider webs—hence the term labyrinth.

"Splendid control of a very difficult curse, my dear!" Light clapping accompanied the acclaim.

Aline spun in a circle, wand at ready, but there was no one in sight. "Who's there?"

"I'm here, to your left—no, right," said the voice.

Aline cast another flaming spell down this corridor and stepped in. Not far in she spied the portrait of Salazar Slytherin, who beckoned her over and exclaimed, "I have rarely seen _Lumon elevato_ properly executed."

"That may be because it is two spells melded into one," Aline said warily. She felt like she ought to recognize this wizard. "Both to cast the fire balls, and to control them, to make them halt and rise."

"I know that," he admitted, smirking. "Dark Arts is not foreign to me. But seriously, I am impressed. It takes talent to make it curve round corners so gracefully."

In spite of herself Aline smiled. "Thank you. Aren't you Salazar Slytherin?"

"I am."

With a wistful grimace she said, "I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm sort of in a hurry. Have you seen a student go by here?"

"I can't say I did," he replied. "You've an interesting accent I've not heard before."

"It's American. I'm from Salem."

"Oh, yes!" Slytherin said, smiling broadly. "You're Aline, Snape's wife! Phineas Nigellus Black told me about you—his portrait is in the Headmaster's office, as I'm sure you're aware." _Unlike my own, stuck here in a damp, musty corridor_.

"Yes, I am aware," she answered distractedly. If that pupil were still in the dungeons, he or she was probably well hidden now. "I need to speak to Severus about moving your portrait to the Slytherin common room. It's disgraceful to keep you secluded here."

"My sentiments exactly, my dear!" He paused, pursing his lips. "I didn't say that out loud, did I? About being stuck here…"

"Um…no. I just think it's not right." Aline shrugged, gesturing toward the exit. "I really need to go, but I will talk to Severus. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"And you. Thank you!" he called after her retreating figure.

Aline retraced her steps down the corridor, once more peering into the darkened corridors to the left and right, this time not really expecting to see anything or anyone. She easily could have gone right past whoever was down here, giving this person a chance to double back and escape undetected. Had the person she'd heard been hiding, afraid to reveal himself for fear of being punished? Whatever the case, he'd somehow eluded her—not a difficult thing to do in this mess of passages—and probably had already sneaked out behind her back. She hadn't time to search any longer…she'd ask the Bloody Baron to take periodic flights through the dungeons, see if anyone made visits there. For now, she had better get moving or Severus would be worried.

From a corridor deep in the labyrinth, the girl picked up her shoes and ran down the stone hallway, her stocking feet soundlessly thudding along until she reached the secluded old classroom, where she hovered near the door listening intently. When she was sure all was clear, she tiptoed into the room and huddled next to the box containing her egg.

"_Hello, my darling_," she hissed. "_I am afraid I may have to move you, but where? I can't take you to my room, or back to the Chamber of Secrets."_

She hesitated, breathing deeply, thinking. There was nowhere. The egg would have to stay here…but she could erect more barriers, just in case. It would have to suffice, and truth be told, it was unlikely anyone would find the room. She didn't know how to set up a blood ward, though she'd learned several others that would keep out the vast majority—including herself. She'd have to undo the wards every time she came down here. To be on the safe side, she dragged the crate into the corner and covered it with an old dusty sheet, stepped back, and proceeded to recite the spells she'd learned from the illicit books in the Reference section of the library.

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Nott Manor was hopping, so to speak. That is, it was seeing the first taste of party life since Udo Nott had 'died', and gone to live with his wife and family at Varden Lestrange's farmhouse in Scotland. Now the home played host to Jacinta's and Theo's families, along with a few close friends—the Malfoys (minus Draco, who was still in Bulgaria), the Goodmans, Blaise Zabini, Pansy and Gregory Goyle, Bayly, Gloria, and Regulus. Jacinta had notified her friends from school of her engagement via owl, as a dinner with a group of ex-Death Eaters might prove slightly overwhelming and frankly dangerous for all involved. Daphne Greengrass, aside from the fact that Jacinta did not like her, was not to be trusted, according to the latter; since she was dating Sirius, she might well let it slip that Theodore's father was alive and well, and it didn't take much of an imagination to assume Sirius would run as fast as his blood traitor legs could carry him to the authorities.

Seated beside his son, who sat at the head of the table with Jacinta, Udo Nott rose, taking his glass in hand. As he waited for the low rumble around the table to die down, he smiled upon the youngsters, his brown eyes misty. "I'd like to make a toast to my son and his lovely bride-to-be. Ever since they were tots, I've held out hope that they'd see how right they are for each other…however, when Jacinta went off to Beauxbatons and Theo to Hogwarts, that seemed less and less likely. I'd about given up hope until two years ago, when Theo got up the courage to ask her out, and the rest is history, I guess. Congratulations, and may you have a long and happy marriage."

He raised his glass of non-alcoholic champagne, which the couple had found in a muggle store; knowing Regulus to be vulnerable and Pansy pregnant, it simply made sense. The rest at the table raised their glasses as well, drank, then proceeded to clap.

Not to be outdone, Jack stood up and cleared his throat. "As you're all aware, Jacinta is not my blood, but she is my daughter in every way; I adore her as I adore all my children. Nott is my best friend, and I always wanted the same thing: my daughter to wed his son. This engagement is a momentous event, for which Glenna and I feel very blessed. We wish you, Jacinta and Theo, every joy, including a lovely brood of babies—_after_ you're married."

The crowd laughed as he raised his glass; Jacinta blushed and clutched Theo's hand under the tablecloth, remembering the close call only a week ago. Everyone dutifully drank, and the applause rang out again. Then a long moment of uncomfortable silence settled over the room, and eyes began to turn to Severus. Regulus, seated opposite him, kicked him under the table and grinned encouragingly.

Severus glared back with a just-because-they-did-it-doesn't-mean-I-have-to glower until, nudged in the leg by Aline's bony knee, he scowled and rose to his feet. "While this lovey-dovey drivel serves as pabulum for the masses, I must admit I wasn't overly thrilled about my daughter dating Theo—no offense, Theodore. I feared, and I dare say erroneously so, that he'd eventually take after his father in wit and intellect." He paused while the family and friends around the table gasped and looked at him in horror. "Oh, get a grip. I said I was wrong—and for the record, it is the one time I do not mind being wrong. Jacinta, Theodore, you have my support and blessing."

Udo Nott burst out laughing, breaking the tension. "Damn, Sev, you know how to make a speech, don't you? I may not be as smart as you, but I understood what you said just fine. Welcome to my family!" He lifted the champagne and finished it off.

"Oh, the horror. The horror," Severus intoned, rolling his eyes even as he allowed a smirk, then polished off his own drink. He didn't bother to address the issue of 'Sev'; too many years had passed to ever hope to change that. He sank back into his chair to enjoy the rest of the meal.

"So, have you set the date?" asked Narcissa.

Jacinta froze, fork in hand. "Um, no. I mean, yes. Sort of."

"We're looking at May of 2002," Theo interjected, smiling sheepishly.

Narcissa frowned lightly. "That's a year and a half away. I didn't know you cared for long engagements."

"We're not in any great rush," said Jacinta. "I like being single and working on my career for now." She shoved a large bite of lobster into her mouth to ward off any more questions.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

After the meal, the group retired to the living area, which had been magically enhanced to accommodate the larger number of people. The furniture had been moved to the fringe to permit a dance floor, with musical accompaniment of a (yes, magically charged) muggle boombox supplied by Regulus that blared out 'oldies from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. At the moment, The Who were singing _You Better You Bet_ and Regulus was rocking out with Gloria, Bayly, and the Goyles as Blaise looked on in wonder and a little bit of alarm. Notwithstanding, he wasted no time insinuating himself into the group, his long limbs flailing comically.

Severus winked at Aline, took her hand, and led her to the floor. He ignored everyone else, who stared as he began to gyrate like a teenager to the beat, Aline's hands in his as she tried to emulate those around her who were obviously much more accustomed to this type of music than she. Never having heard the like, it was quite understandable.

To her dismay, Severus leaned in and cooed in her ear along with the song, "_You better love me, all the time now. You better shove me back into line now. You better love me, all the time now. You better shove me back into line now!_"

She covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes growing big as teacup saucers, and giggled. For a minute, she almost felt like a teenager herself. "I can't believe you know this song," she laughed.

Not missing a beat, he responded with more lyrics, which but for the voice on the radio, might have been himself speaking, "_I showed up late one night with a neon light for a visa. But knowing I'm so eager to fight can't make letting me in any easier. I know I been wearing crazy clothes, and I look pretty crappy sometimes_—" at which point he erupted in mirth at the expression on his wife's face. "Oh, Aline, you're delectable. I absolutely used to love listening to muggle radio, especially when I visited with Julius and Tina. Yes, they fancy muggle music, too."

"I do love you all the time. And for the record, you never look crappy," Aline whispered back. "But that bit about being eager to fight—nailed you!"

"Right indeed. But…_when I say I love you, you say_?" he prompted, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You'd better," she answered shyly, laughing again. "Goodness, you're turning into Regulus!"

"Could be worse," he said, keeping his gaze only on her. He intended to enjoy this dance whether anyone watched or not. Near the end he scooped her into his arms and growled, "_You better bet your life, or love will cut you…just like a knif_e." The song ended, but he held her a moment longer and whispered, "I bet my life with you, and you have never disappointed me. I only hope Jacinta is so lucky."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Ah, the big person had left the room; now was the time! Someone had knocked on the door, giving him the perfect opportunity to escape this heinous boredom of sitting here listening to a silly story about…something…he hadn't really been listening. Ladon scampered off the sofa where he'd been sitting with a drowsy Khala and dashed to the door. Khala squealed and dropped over the edge of the couch herself to follow her brother, and together they peeked out at Lucius as he entered.

"Hello, Andromeda. Narcissa said to tell you she'd talk to you tomorrow, but she's quite exhausted tonight. Thank you again for watching the children."

"It's no trouble. They're delightful, though I can't get them to sleep," answered Andy, smiling as she gave a resigned shrug. "Please come in."

"Fa'er!" screamed Khala, toddling toward him with her newfound ability to walk. Halfway across the foyer she fell on her face, peered up at Lucius with enormous grey eyes, and her lip began to tremble. In a second he'd crossed the space and scooped her into his arm, jostling her up and down and soothing her with a low drawl that Ladon couldn't make out.

Oh, no, they were headed this way! Giggling to himself, the tyke darted under an armchair where surely they'd never look. Yes, he was right! They glanced about the room, then Father piped up in a sing-song voice, "Ladon, where are you? Where could that boy be?"

"He's terribly good at hiding," Andy confirmed, giving off a worried air. "Good thing the Snapes already came and got the twins, or they might have disappeared, too."

Ladon covered his mouth with his hand and snickered softly. Now he could listen to interesting conversation, the stuff of adult to adult, the stuff they never wanted him to hear.

"Has Teddy gone to bed then?" asked Lucius, more by way of conversation than anything else.

"Yes, hours ago," said Andy, trying not to look at Ladon's rump protruding noticeably from under the chair. "Narcissa didn't tell me your children fight sleep."

"If she had, would you have agreed to watch them?" Lucius chuckled.

"Of course I would. They're my niece and nephew, Lucius!"

"Yes, of course they are," he said quietly.

Out of habit Ladon regarded his father intently; he loved his father, loved to see him, and play with him, and mess his beautiful long hair, and listen to him speak…in this moment, he noted a distinct change in the wizard…something was wrong with Fa'er. Like a sharp slap to the face, a sudden expression of sadness had fallen like a wave over his countenance.

Ladon scooted out in a crawl from under the chair to approach the man, and hugged his leg as he patted it tenderly. "Fa'er, wha's wrong?"

"There you are, my big boy," Lucius said in answer. He bent down to lift his son into his free arm. "Were you hiding?"

The child nodded and wrapped his tiny arms about the man's neck, but he refused to be sidetracked. "You sad?"

"Why would you say that?" Lucius queried, deftly sidestepping the issue.

"You look sad," insisted the lad.

"I'm fine, my darling boy. Come on, let's get you home before your mother gets worked up. You don't want to upset her, do you?"

This time Ladon shook his head vigorously. He loved Mama so much, too, and he never, ever wanted to make her upset. She was good and sweet and kind to him, and she sang nice, and read pretty stories, and hugged him, and told him she loved him. She was perfect. He waved at his aunt. "Bye-bye, Auntie Andy."

Andromeda stepped in close to kiss the babies on the cheek. "Goodnight, sweetheart. I'll see you soon."

Khala opened and closed her fist in a childish wave over her father's shoulder as Lucius headed for the fireplace. "Buh-bye, Auntie Auntie," she said.

"Bye, my beautiful dragonette," said Andy.

"Goodnight, Andromeda." Lucius halted at the floo and turned halfway round. "Andy, would you like to come to the manor next week for dinner? I'm sure Narcissa would love to have you over."

"I'd like that. Let me know the time," she replied. "Goodnight, Lucius."

Lucius stepped into the fireplace, dropped a pinch of powder, and in a flash was home. He walked out of the floo, for once not thinking of how he detested the dirty mode of transportation. Sorrow lay heavy on his heart, and for the life of him he couldn't begin to fathom what had caused it. All he could think of was poor Andy; she'd lost her husband, her daughter, and her son-in-law, yet she persevered with the patience of a saint in the face of a situation that would have killed him. And he'd been so oblivious to her pain, which must have been apparent, at least initially. No, he conceded, not oblivious; he'd deliberately ignored it, because to acknowledge it was to acknowledge the horrors he'd seen…the horrors he'd been part of. He'd strived to suppress the memories, and thereby relieve himself of the guilt tacked to them like a teacher's note to a small child's shirt.

"Fa'er, where's Mama?" asked Ladon, tugging gently at a lock of hair hanging over Lucius' face.

Lucius forced a smile. "Upstairs. It's time for bed for you little rascals. Mama will read you a story."

"Stay with us," Ladon begged, even as they mounted the staircase.

"Till you fall asleep, I promise," he responded, thudding heavily up the steps. He gave the children an extra hard hug as he entered the nursery, where Narcissa waited, book in hand. "Your prince and princess, my queen."

"Thank you, darling. Sit with me while I read?"

Needing no further invitation, he sat snuggled up as close as it was possible to be without actually sitting on her lap, his arm encircling her waist a tad too tightly, as he watched his babies drift off to sleep. He said a prayer for them, and another for Andromeda.


	50. Slytherin Rules

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 50 (Slytherin Rules)

**January 4, 1941**

Hogwarts school was still closed for the Christmas holiday, which made Tom glad. As it had every year at Hogwarts, his birthday had come and gone without a fuss; he was now fifteen, and this was the fourth year he'd been away from the orphanage on Christmas. If only he could stay for summer holiday as well, he'd be quite delighted. Be that as it may, the rest of the students would be returning within a few days, so any furtive activities he had planned must be done forthwith. At the moment, those activities included needing to talk to Salazar Slytherin.

Yesterday he'd waited till nearly midnight, when he was certain no one would be around, and had slipped into his Chamber of Secrets, closing the entry behind him. He enjoyed being down there alone, in the solitude where he could think in peace, reflect on Minerva—though he'd sooner rip out his own tongue with a jagged, rusty spoon than let her or anyone else know it—and just be away from the rest of the world in a place that belonged solely to him. He'd been there many times since Slytherin had enlightened him to its existence and purpose, but this time was different: he had found something in Bassy's lair, something that both titillated and alarmed him, and now he had to go to the source directly to find out what this meant.

"Tom, I'm surprised to see you so early in the morning," said a sleepy Salazar, blinking back the weariness from his eyes.

"I've found something," Tom blurted, not bothering to address Slytherin's comment. "There's an egg—I think it's an egg—in the chamber!"

Slytherin regarded him first with astonishment, then his monkey-like face creased with a wide grin. "The basilisk has spawned? I admit, I hadn't anticipated that. Basilisks are extremely rare because although they are hermaphroditic, they never lay more than one egg in a lifetime, you know, and I had assumed she'd already…well, good job, Bassy."

"Salazar, I think you misunderstand me. What am I supposed to do with it?" asked Tom. "If it hatches, there will be two beasts down there…" The tone implying he had no wish or motivation to train and control two giant snakes at once.

The older, dead wizard grew pensive. Yes, that would be problematic. He wagged his head slowly from side to side. "You can't let it hatch. A basilisk will attack another of its kind, even its own young. They typically lay an egg in a warm environment and abandon the spot, but that isn't possible in this case. You'll need to move it to a safe area where it will be hidden and cold."

"Cold? So it won't hatch, you mean?"

Slytherin nodded. "Yes. The whole chamber is cold enough, I suppose…just hide the egg somewhere our pet won't find it. Mayhap later on you'll discover a new home for the baby." The thought perturbed him. Basilisks required large areas in which to roam, yet needed stringent boundaries, lest they escape. If Tom weren't able to provide that, the little snake-imp would fail to thrive, or would forcibly break away, a scenario that boded ill for the general populace…and for Tom. "It's definitely for the best right now."

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_Jan. 4, 1941_

_ I found a basilisk egg. Slytherin said to hide it so Bassy won't __accidentally hatch it, then kill it. Since she isn't terribly intelligent, I needn't be too clever in my hiding spot, so I merely put it in one of the smaller tunnels leading out of the chamber. Bassy can't get in there anyway, and it is underneath piles of straw to disguise it. Slytherin said it was an excellent solution._

_ The other students will be coming back to Hogwarts soon. I wish I __could have the castle to myself. Except Minerva. I wish she alone could be here with me, where she wouldn't have to worry about those stupid Gryffindorks and what they think of Slytherins. I saved her life three months ago, and they all act like it was nothing…but sometimes I see her looking at me in the Great Hall, and it makes me feel funny. She has real gifts, real possibilities, unlike the rest of those talentless hacks she hangs around with. I could teach her so much more. I fear it is more likely she will learn from her filthy halfblood and mudblood cronies how to hate those in my House. I'm not saying there isn't a lot of animosity all around, but the Gryffindorks are the most prejudiced people I have ever had the displeasure to know—and I know a lot of purebloods!_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 1, 2000**

She was in danger of discovery. It had become common gossip about the school that the Chamber of Secrets had been reopened, though no student but she herself could definitively say it was true. The teachers either avoided the subject or outright denied it, which she found both disingenuous and a feeble attempt at a lie. Nonetheless, that fact alone had caused her to cease all activity not directly related to tending her studies or her egg. She hadn't even been to see Salazar in a few weeks, and she assumed he'd miss her. She missed talking to him, too; he was the only one who really understood what it was like to be different from the rest…special.

More than two weeks had passed, though, and people had moved on to other topics. Perhaps it was safe to sneak up the passage for a quick visit with Slytherin before going to check on her baby, to make sure it was warm enough. If he got too cold, it would further retard the growth process, making the hatching take even longer. That invited more questions and problems, of course; once Eggy hatched, where would she house him? She'd have to get him back into the Chamber of Secrets…and she'd have to stop calling him Eggy. She gave a wry grin.

As she'd done so often in the past months, she waited till the corridor was clear, then darted past the hallway to the Slytherin common room, on her way to the labyrinth. So frequently had she come here, she no longer required the assistance of light, and in these perilous times it was simply safer to walk along in the dark than to make oneself a target. Counting her steps, she turned at precisely the exact moment into another corridor, just as dank and dark as the others, and halted several meters in.

"Hello, Salazar," she said softly. There was no answer. Had he gone visiting, or was he perhaps asleep? Glancing about into the empty, quiet hall, she raised her wand and lit the tip with a _lumos_. She lurched backward, startled, falling against the wall behind her. "What…where are you?"

The wall was blank stone, devoid of even a portrait frame. Had she mistakenly come to the wrong passage? How was that possible? She'd been here enough times to know the way by heart! Said heart quickening in her chest, she moved forward, her wand held aloft to the wall, and her face hardened into a grimace. He'd been here, she was in the right place; an old, faint outline of dusty, lightly stained stone surrounded a patch of cleaner, brighter stone where the portrait had hung for a thousand years.

"_Son of a bitch!_" she hissed in parseltongue, slamming a hand against the stone. Where had they taken him? And why? Did they suspect he'd been speaking with her? No…that couldn't be it or else they'd have approached her. Well, they wouldn't get away with it. She'd speak to other portraits, casually bring up Slytherin and see if anyone offered information as to his whereabouts. "_I'll find you_," she promised, jaw clenched.

That said, she extinguished her wand tip, whirled on the spot, and stormed from the passage, unaware of the Bloody Baron hovering near the ceiling further in the passage, where he'd just emerged through the wall. He drifted along, slightly behind her, as she made her way through the web of corridors, one hand always in contact with the stone as a guide. Mistress Snape had asked him to periodically explore the dungeon labyrinth to see if any students came down here, and frankly he'd grown weary of it. Had he not liked Aline, he'd have abandoned his post weeks ago, but now it had paid off. A rogue pupil was wandering about—a parselmouth, no less!

He'd begun to wonder if she was lost, for she proceeded to go farther and farther from the exit. When she arrived to the classroom buried deep in the maze and proceeded to tear down the wards she'd placed there, he understood. This wasn't the first time she'd been here at all…and there had to be a good reason for putting up wards. He let her go in, and contented himself with merely sticking his head through the wall to watch her, in case he needed to disappear quickly. She went right to the corner, pulled an old sheet from a crate, and knelt down beside it. As much as he'd like to continue spying on her, he'd better notify Headmaster Snape, who'd love nothing more than to catch the child in the act of whatever it was she was doing!

He withdrew his head and shot upward through the floors, flew speedily across the castle, and landed with a flourish in Snape's office, where he perched on the corner of the Headmaster's desk. "I have news for you," he crooned in a sing-song that was comically disturbing, considering the source.

Severus lifted his head from the student files he'd been studying. "If you're going to tell me the Grey Lady had finally agreed to be your girlfriend, I frankly don't care."

The Bloody Baron wrinkled his nose. "I wouldn't tell you anyway. Your wife, who happens to be a lovely witch with a scintillating personality, unlike yourself, asked me to patrol the dungeons for errant students." He paused for effect.

Snape sighed. "And?"

"And there is currently a young girl in one of the unused classrooms. She seems to have something she's concealing in there. Did I mention she was a parselmouth?" He burst out laughing at the expression on the wizard's face as Severus leapt to his feet.

"Show me." Severus had to literally run to keep abreast of the ghost, who floated down the spiral stairs of the office and away. By the time they crossed the castle to the stairways leading to the dungeons, Severus was gasping for breath. He wasn't used to racing like a maniac over long distances. "Could you slow down a bit!"

The Baron turned to him, smiling mockingly. "Out of shape, are you? If Aline were MY wife, I'd get enough exercise to stay fit." Then he cackled to himself and zoomed down the steps with Severus pounding behind him, swearing under his rasping breath.

The ghost led him along the corridors straight to the classroom, halted, and pointed. "There."

Severus took a rushed step forward and ran directly into the invisible barriers, which smacked his prominent nose and knocked him backward. Blinking back reflexive tears, his fingers feeling to make sure his appendage was unbroken, he growled in a cross, slightly nasal voice, "You couldn't tell me about the wards?"

The Baron shrugged. "I forgot." He floated through the wall, and immediately came out again, to find Severus at work dismantling the first of the barriers. "She's gone."

Snape's swearing became distinctly more vocal, interspersed with silent spells that left rings of color drifting up to the ceiling as wards fell. Purple rose and dissipated, followed by gold, then finally a sky blue ring that shimmered and fell like a rock into the floor. It was done. He opened the door, cautiously lighting the room as he slipped inside.

"In that corner, over there, that's where she went," said the Baron.

Severus walked over and looked down. One swift yank removed the sheet from over the box, and warily he leaned in close. With his wand he pushed aside the crumpled parchment, and suddenly his breath caught in his lungs as his stomach lurched. Oh. Shit.

"What is it?" The Bloody Baron crowded in, peering at the egg. "Damn big chicken, isn't it?"

"It's not a bloody chicken egg!" snapped Snape.

"Then what is it?" challenged the other.

"I'm not sure…but I'm fairly certain it isn't good." Severus stood up straight. "We need to get Hagrid. If anyone knows what it is, he will."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"She had longish hair, medium brown, I think," the Baron wearily repeated for the third time as Minerva entered the room asking for a description. "It was dark, I couldn't see the colour, but it didn't look blond…it was sort of curly, or maybe bushy. The girl is small, either a younger student or a very short older one."

"What did she say? You heard her speaking," prompted Minerva.

"I don't know; I don't speak parseltongue," answered the Baron.

Minerva and the rest of the teachers listened intently to all the Baron had to say, then began a cacophony of all speaking at once as Severus sat on the edge of his desk, looking at the floor and wishing they'd all shut the hell up. If he thought it might be productive to will their mouths closed, he'd try it…alright, he _had_ tried it, but failed to project from his mind a spell to silence them. Everyone thought it imperative to insinuate their own inane ideas of how to capture the girl, as if she were a wild beast on the loose.

"Might I interject?" Aline said at last in what sounded amazingly like a shout.

The office full of professors quieted immediately, some giving shocked, baleful expressions as if her tone had hurt their feelings. Seriously, if that's all it took, they ought to find a new position, because compared to Severus, Aline was a walk in the park on a sultry summer day. Snape felt ready to burst into a full blown tirade at any moment.

"We are talking about a little girl, not Voldemort," Aline continued snarkily, which gave certain members of the faculty shudders at the evil name and her husband a sudden rush of blood to his nether regions. God, he loved her! "She speaks parseltongue, which is not a crime regardless of its jaded past. We want to ask her some questions, but you're all acting like she's a criminal we need to lynch."

"Not all of us, Aline," Firenze pouted.

"Doom surrounds this child," Sibyll Trelawney intoned. She opened her mouth once more, glanced at Severus peering hard back at her, and promptly closed it. If she'd read his malevolent glance correctly, as she was sure she had, he was actually warning her not to predict gloom and death. Well, she could hardly predict candy and sunshine now, could she?

"She—she is in possession of an egg, probably an illegal egg," Minerva sputtered. "We don't even know what it is!"

"Basilisk," came a booming voice from the doorway. Heads spun round and eyes widened at the mention. Hagrid lumbered in partway, unable to go further due to the crowd. "I ain't fer sure, I never saw one like this, but I know it ain't a dragon egg, and seems ter me the lass mighta got it from the Chamber of Secrets."

"That makes sense," Severus acknowledged. He'd thought the same, but had been hesitant to propose it. "It's very sizeable, meaning the animal is, too."

"Centaurs give birth to live young," Firenze clarified, in case there was any room for doubt. "As do thestrals, unicorns, and all types of horses, winged or not. That doesn't leave many other large varieties of land creature."

Meanwhile, Aline had elbowed her way through the throng, to where Hagrid stood holding the egg like a baby. This was one time she wished her sister were here: Abby, who had complete control over her strong gift of clairvoyance. She laid her hand on the smooth surface.

"Careful there, Aline. Dunno when this 'ere might crack open," Hagrid cautioned, making a few teachers take a step backward.

"I'm alright." She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. Damn it, why was it so hard for her when it was so easy for her family? _Relax, let it come…focus_. A shock of a vision shot up her arm and she leaped back, panting. "Snakey," she said, shaking her arm as if it hurt.

"You saw a basilisk?" Severus asked, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.

"I—I don't know. I think so. It was a big-ass snake thing," Aline said, shuddering.

"Hagrid, take it to your hut for now," Severus instructed, pointing out the door. "Put it in cold water and make sure it doesn't get warm. It can't hatch if it isn't warm."

Hagrid nodded his grizzled head and blithely turned about, roughly jostling into the wall one or two of the teachers, and thudded from the room, whistling as he strode down the steps.

"And how do we find the girl responsible for this egg?" asked Madam Hooch.

"She'll be going back to tend the egg again, probably soon. If she returns and finds it missing, we may lose our opportunity," Severus said levelly. "We need to set a trap."

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"I forbid it, Regulus!" Sirius stomped across the living room at Spinner's End to confront his younger brother, who lounged on the sofa watching the telly instead of paying heed to the rant. He picked up the remote and began pressing buttons; the channel changed several times, but he failed to find the OFF button.

Regulus snatched it back from his hand and reset the channel he'd been watching. "You're pitiful. All this time and you can't even turn off a telly."

Wrong thing to say. Sirius whipped out his wand and took aim. "Really? I'll turn the damn thing off permanently if you don't listen to me!"

Scowling, Regulus clicked the machine off, threw the remote on the coffee table, and sat up in a tizzy. "You _forbid_ it? What gives you the right? I don't hear you forbidding Harry!"

"For your information, I've been counseling Harry about this insane venture," Sirius snapped. He dropped into one of the wingchairs, arms crossed. "And I'm your older brother, which gives me the right to tell you what to do."

"Piss off, Sirius. I'm grown up, I live on my own, and I'm going."

Sirius stopped short of leaning over to whack his brother across the head. "It's too dangerous! Do you wanna die again?" All sound ceased, save the ticking of a clock in the hall near the kitchen. The young men stared at each other for an eternity, Sirius' overt apprehension versus Reg's incredulity at his brother's vulnerable stance, until at last Sirius went on in a calm tone, "Look, I'm sorry if I'm acting like a prig, but I worry about you. This isn't just a lark."

Reg let loose a guffaw. "Since when is Sirius Black concerned about peril to life and limb? From what I gather, you used to be quite a daredevil at my age."

"That was when I had nothing or no one to live for," Sirius said softly. His eyes sought the refuge of the carpet; he wasn't accustomed to letting his heart show on his sleeve. "When we came back, I hoped to be a good brother to you…since I wasn't the first time around. I don't want you getting hurt, Reg."

The younger wizard regarded him evenly, detecting no sign of mischief or trickery. Truth be told, he realized that Sirius had changed a lot in this past year, and they got on better than they ever had—as well as when they'd been little boys, before the Gryffindor/Slytherin wedge had driven them so far apart. He desired that renewed relationship as much as Sirius did, he didn't care to reestablish obstacles and barriers between them.

Reg chewed his lip fretfully. He couldn't back out now…well, he could, but he didn't want to. "If you're so worried, come with us. You can watch over me and make sure I'm not doing anything stupid." He waited for Sirius to lift his head and look at him. "Can you honestly say you don't want to be a part of this?"

A widening smile overtook Sirius' solemn features. "I really would enjoy it," he admitted. "But am I welcome—and I don't mean by you."

"Harry's going, and Ron. They'd both vouch for you. Besides, it's Charlie's operation and he likes you; if he says it's okay, you're in." Regulus grinned impishly as he put on a deep, dramatic voice. "The Black brothers wreak havoc together! What do you say?"

"I say—I need to buy a better broom." Sirius got up and headed for the door, tousling Reg's hair as he passed. "I'll be here bright and early, kid. I can't believe you talked me into this."

Reg smiled again, this time with a wink. "Persuasion is just one of my many talents, dear brother. In a couple of days, I shall demonstrate yet another. Until then, go away, I'm missing my program." He turned round and clicked on the television.

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"Are you sure this is what you want?" asked Lucius doubtfully. The bundle he held in his arms was quite possibly worth a fortune and a half, enough certainly to set a fellow for life. A clever bloke did not easily give that up, and Snape was definitely clever. "You can't take it back once it's done."

Severus nodded curtly. He'd thought long and hard, and this was the best solution. He had a responsibility to protect his students—and anyone else who may be affected. "Just do it, alright? I trust you, Lucius."

"After all you've been through together, I certainly hope so," said Narcissa as she sauntered into the room. She approached Severus to shake his hand, and waited for him to give it his traditional light kiss, which he did. Then she hugged him tight. "Why didn't anyone tell me you were here? Did you bring Aline? Or the babies?"

"No, I'm by myself," Severus answered evasively. Let Lucius deal with the details, he could handle Narcissa better than anyone—especially an irate Narcissa. "And unfortunately I need to get back, so…" His gaze landed on his old friend once more, with the unspoken request traveling between them. "Good afternoon to you both. I'll be seeing you soon, I'm sure." He backed into the floo, smiled weakly, and was gone.

"That was strange," Narcissa observed, puckering her brows. Since when did Severus show up in the middle of the day to make a request? "What does he want you to do?" Narcissa queried to her husband, who was busy staring at the orb in his arms. "And what in heaven's name is that thing?"

"What thing?" Lucius whipped the ball behind his back and dropped it onto a chair, positioning himself in front of it. He blinked at her, his face a mask of sheer innocence.

"Don't give me that, Lucius Malfoy," she snorted, trying to get past him. "You couldn't lie to Abraxas, and you can't lie to me. What are you hiding?" She leaped from one side to the other, vying for an opportunity, reaching round him. A grasping with the fingers that turned into a hard dig in the ribs both tickled him and made him grunt in pain.

"Darling, it's not your business," he growled.

Wrestling never having been his forte, Lucius was easily shoved aside far enough for Narcissa to get a good look at the massive egg nestled on her sitting room chair. Her mouth dropped open and she straightened up to face him. "Obviously it isn't a gift for me, so why are you trying to keep it a secret? Is this something that will get you in trouble?"

He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Narcissa, I'm doing a favour for Severus. This is a basilisk egg—"

"A _what_?" she shrieked, automatically backing away and dragging him with her. "Why is it in our house? If it hatches it will kill us! Our children live here, Lucius!"

"If you will permit me, love, I will explain," he said calmly. "I told you about the reopening of the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts. Well, they found this egg today, probably from the chamber. A student has been keeping it in secret, most likely trying to hatch it. Severus asked me to get rid of it."

Narcissa, eyes narrowed, glared from the egg to Lucius. "If that's all, why are you acting like a complete arse? You could have told me from the off. Which of course makes me believe you have something you're not telling me." She crossed her arms, her foot tapping impatiently.

"Well," he conceded, even as he took a few steps away from her. "I thought you might take issue with the method of disposal."

For a brief moment horror crossed her visage. "You don't mean to let it loose on muggles!"

"Of course not, you batty witch. What do you take me for?" he snapped, his face wrinkling in disgust. "Severus asked me to feed it to my—to Xerxes."

Now she understood the secrecy, the stealth. She worried every time he went to see his 'pet dragon', and now he was not only going to visit, he was taking dinner…to a nest of two adult dragons and their three young dragonettes. Yes, that was perfectly safe—NOT. She let out a long sigh. "I don't think I can talk you out of it, and getting angry over it won't make the egg go away. Why can't you kill it yourself?"

"Don't you think Severus tried?" he responded, shaking his head, his blond locks swaying. "The shell is too hard and it deflects spells, making it dangerous for those casting them. If we could be certain that a curse had done the trick, that would be all well and good, but we can't afford to be wrong."

"And dragons' jaws and teeth can cut through pure rock, let alone an eggshell," she finished for him. There would be no doubt that the creature was dead if it were digesting inside a dragon's stomach. "Go, take it—but be careful!"

Lucius sauntered up to her, slung her over one arm in a low dip, and snogged her rotten. When he let her up, he lifted the egg from the chair and headed for the front door. "I won't be long. Don't worry, love, Xerxes won't hurt me."

"He's not the one that scares me," she said. "I love you."

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"Xerxes! It's Lucius. Are you there?" He stood on the rock ledge several meters higher than the nest below, scanning the mountains for his dragon. Every so often he glanced nervously at the red she-dragon whose piercing glare hadn't left him since he arrived.

She hissed in his direction, and he instinctively flattened himself against the rock wall. The babies gurgled and flapped their wings at him. They'd grown quite a lot, were even flying short distances now—thankfully not in his direction. They had a nasty tendency to shoot flames for no apparent reason, probably a trait inherited from that shrew of a mother.

What if Xerxes were out hunting? He could be gone for hours, or days. There was no telling how far along this basilisk egg was, nor when it might hatch. He was not taking it home, he refused to jeopardize his family that way no matter what Severus or anyone else might think about it. Though in all fairness, he knew Snape would die before he'd willingly put Lucius or his family in that kind of danger. But if it hatched here, one look at it would kill him…

"Oh, Mrs. Xerxes," he sang, holding up the egg in both hands. Her eyes lit up brilliantly. She really was a pretty dragon. "Do you want it? I'll bet it's very tasty, lots of nutrition and all that."

Had she licked her lips? Did dragons even have lips? She was definitely interested. Okay, now what? She wanted the egg, he wanted her to have the egg…the problem being, how to get the egg from him to her without loss of life or limb on his part.

"Got it."

Balancing the orb in one hand, he removed his wand from his pocket; a second later, he was levitating it her way. It floated over the open space, the dragon's eyes glued to it, her mouth salivating uncontrollably. The moment it was within reach, she lunged forward and snapped it into her powerful jaws. A tremendous crunch followed as the shell cracked into pieces, and then a thunderous racket of chewing, culminating in a large, contented gulp.

"Mission accomplished," he said to himself, feeling every bit as satisfied as she looked. "Tell Xerxes I was here." As if he actually believed she would! To his dismay, she inclined her head toward him in a manner very reminiscent of a nod, and snorted puffs of smoke at him…smoke, not fire! That was real progress. Had he finally learned the way to her heart? Next time he'd bring along enough rats for the whole family; she may fall in love with him!


	51. Recompense

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 51 (Recompense)

(A/N: I have written a silly new oneshot called _Narcissa and the Cable Guy_. If you're interested, please read and review. I love and need encouragement for all my stories, my dear readers. Also, I am unable to respond to certain reviewers because their messaging is set to OFF. If this is a mistake, you need to check your settings.)

**June 23, 1973**

Lucius and Bellatrix fell to their knees along with the rest the moment Voldemort apparated into the tiny parlor of the dismal London flat. In her typical over-the-top display of who could suck up with the most enthusiasm, Bella slithered to Voldemort and kissed his garment repeatedly, mumbling how proud and honored she was to be allowed in his presence.

_Way to set the bar low_, Lucius complained inwardly, scowling. Following her act, he seemed pitiful by comparison. He crawled up and gave his usual peck on the hem of the robe.

"My lord, I'm here at your command," he intoned, thinking how ludicrous that sounded. Was there anyone here NOT at his command?

Bellatrix made a face at him which he interpreted to be smugness. They moved out of the way to allow the rest of the Death Eaters to bow and scrape.

"That's the best you can do?" Bella hissed. "He deserves your _best_, Lucius."

"At least my underwear wasn't showing for the sport of all those lechers," he retorted, scarcely refraining from delivering a well-deserved finger salute. Because they must appear in the muggle world, and Lord Voldemort had yet to introduce what would later come to be hallmark Death Eater robes and masks, the dark lord insisted no one wear outer robes, leaving Bella in her thigh-high miniskirt.

She slowly smoothed down her attire, letting her hands roam over her hips and thighs. "I'll bet they liked it."

"I can't speak for them, but I thought it was crass and tasteless. Oh, sorry, that's how you always dress." His sneer greeted her daggers-for-eyes.

"Blondie!" she spat back.

"Are you finished, children?" Voldemort asked, cocking his head to the side as he peered unnervingly at them. The other Death Eaters huddled as far from him as they could get, every one watching intently for their reaction. Only now did the two combatants notice the frosty silence in the room.

"My lord, forgive me," Bellatrix exclaimed, prostrating herself again.

Lucius slid down to the floor as well, heart pounding furiously. "I'm sorry, master. I forgot my place."

"Not a good thing to forget, is it, Lucius?" cooed the dark wizard.

"No, my lord."

"Bellatrix, come here, sit beside me."

Bella crept over to sit at Voldemort's feet, purring as he touched the top of her head with one hand. All eyes gaped in astonishment at the preferential treatment being given for no apparent reason. If anything, they'd anticipated Bella and Lucius being tortured for their impropriety, and here she was being _rewarded_? All eyes shifted as one to Lucius who must, by default, bear the entire penalty alone.

Without warning Voldemort's fingers twisted in Bella's hair to wrench her head back, eliciting a yelp. In a chiding, almost fatherly tone he said, "You're older than the boy. Act like it."

"Yes, master," she agreed. Unbidden tears threatened to drip from her eyes at any second. He'd scolded her! He was upset with her!

"Lucius," Voldemort went on. "Why do you come here?"

"My lord?" His already frenetic heartbeat kicked up a notch to the point he felt faint.

"It's a simple question. Answer it."

"I—I came because you instructed me to. Obedience brings reward." Parroting back the words the master had instilled in him clearly could not be cause for repercussion.

A twist of the dark lord's mouth might have been construed as a smile. Or not. "A true answer. An honest answer. You seek reward."

How was Lucius to respond to that? Had it pleased the dark lord? Lying was definitely not the path to take at this moment. More than anything he sought to avoid punishment associated with _dis_obedience, but this would have to do. "All people seek reward, my lord. Few are fortunate enough to find one who can provide it for them."

Voldemort turned his gaze to the six Death Eaters listening attentively while they tried to blend into the walls. They shifted uncomfortably under his heavy stare. "Is he telling the truth? Dolohov, Avery, Goyle? Macnair, is this why you're here?"

Macnair fell to his knees, ducking his head, his shiny black hair falling forward to obscure his face. "I'm here to serve you, my lord."

"Lucius is a classmate of yours, isn't he?"

"A year below, yes, sir." It hardly mattered that he'd just graduated while Lucius had a year of school to go, and he highly doubted the dark lord wanted to hear it anyway.

"Should I reward him for his honesty or punish him for his lack of deference?"

The youth hesitated. He'd seen Lucius _crucio_'d savagely by Lord Voldemort, and it hadn't been pretty. Sure, used on someone he didn't know, he could draw satisfaction from it, but he'd hung out with Lucius, they were—if not close friends—still friends. "That's not my decision, master. Only you can say."

Voldemort observed the lad squirming, struggling for a reply. Did he note a hint of loyalty toward Lucius when all allegiance belonged solely to the dark wizard? It simply could not be tolerated. "It appears our dear Lucius needs reminding of his etiquette, as well as a lesson in how to serve his master. Macnair, teach him."

Still on his knees, Macnair swallowed hard and pointed his wand. "_Crucio_," he barked, and Lucius fell to the floor, writhing piteously.

After only a few seconds Voldemort motioned for him to lift the wand. "Well done, Walden. No hesitation to obey." He looked at Lucius, who was groaning and trying to rise. "Perhaps you should emulate your classmate, Malfoy. From now on, it would be wise to abide by protocol."

As quickly as that he turned his attention to the reason he'd called them here. "In the future you will need certain skills none of you yet possesses in any appreciable quantity. Those in positions of power in particular must become competent at Occlumency. The rest of you may need it for self-preservation. Those with superior abilities may be able to learn a degree of Legilimency. Let us begin."

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_June 23, 1973_

_The lessons in Occlumency went well, as I expected. I admit I am disappointed to find that Legilimency cannot be taught so easily. Apparently it is an innate skill, and if one does not possess at least a modicum of ability to begin with, it is a hopeless cause. Still, I believe some of my supporters will make a bit of progress, which is the most I can hope for._

_When Macnair__ joined me less than a year ago, I sensed the heart of a warrior, a strong sense of fairness, of justice. He understands the need to rid the world of muggle scum in order to protect the magical world from their tainted influence. He is truly gifted in seeing the world in black and white; far too many find shades of grey that obscure the reality of a situation. Generally he is careful not to call attention to himself, and he does as he is told without quibbling or asking silly questions. He is, in short, the ideal follower._

_Thus, I found it surprising today when, although he obeyed my command to teach Malfoy his place, he did so with a reluctance I felt reverberating throughout his body. It was as if he felt pity for Lucius, yet I have never seen him show pity on a mission. Perhaps his sympathy toward a comrade is part of the same loyal streak that keeps him devoted to me. Whatever the case, he subjugated this desire in favour of my order. I can ask little more._

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**December 4, 2000**

Bayly, according to his custom, was cleaning up the Potions lab after classes when the alarm went off. At first he froze at the high pitched sound echoing in the room. Then he remembered what it signified: the wards had been breached in the dungeon classroom where the basilisk egg had been found. He took off at a dead run into the labyrinth, the tip of his wand lit, his mind rushing over the schematic layout he'd studied and walked numerous times in the event of this very circumstance.

As he got near, he extinguished the light so as not to warn the girl of his presence, and slowed to a walk so silent a dog would have a hard time detecting him. Heart hammering maniacally in his chest, he slid up next to the door and barely poked his head inside. She was there! He determined he needn't have worried about being so quiet, as she was in the middle of throwing a fierce tantrum, evidently upon discovering her precious egg had disappeared.

On her knees on the cold stone floor in front of the crate, the girl rummaged madly about, flinging the parchment scraps hither and yon, until nothing remained save the box itself. "Noooo! Where are you?" she screamed. She stood up, lifted the crate, and heaved it against the wall, where it splintered and fell in several pieces. "No! No! No! You can't be gone!"

She paused briefly, panting in rage and frustration as she glanced about the dark room. "Did you hatch? No, the shell would be here! Damn it, who took you!" She whirled in a circle, and at that moment Bayly raised his wand and stepped into the doorway. She let out a shriek of genuine fear.

Bayly uttered, "_Lumos_," and the room brightened. "Therese?" he exclaimed. One would be hard pressed to guess which of the two looked more startled.

"P-p-professor," she stammered, backing up into the wall and nearly tripping over a chunk of wood from the box she'd broken. "I didn't do anything."

"Why are you in here then?" he asked.

"I—I was just curious. Exploring."

"What was in the box?" he persisted.

She shrugged and mumbled something he didn't catch under her breath.

"I saw you throw the crate, Therese. I heard you shouting." Bayly came closer, then stopped out of arm's length. Professor Snape ought to be here soon. _He'd_ devised the alarm, had set it to alert both his office and the Potions lab, and he'd want to grill the normally perfectly-mannered little Hufflepuff himself. Nevertheless, it felt too awkward to say nothing, so Bayly pressed on. "You had an egg in there, didn't you?"

Her eyes shifted to the door, which was blocked by the young wizard. There was no escape. The teacher was much larger, stronger, and better with a wand, and even if she managed to get out, he'd chase her down. He knew who she was. "I didn't do anything bad!" And then she burst into wrenching sobs that made Bayly feel like a heel. He'd never made a child cry before!

He'd almost lost all his resolve and tried to comfort her when another voice, a smooth, silky one entered the conversation. "Ah, Mr. Young, I see you're learning. Got her to weep under questioning, did you?" Severus said, smirking knowingly. If Bayly ever reduced a child to tears on purpose, it would signify the end of the world as we know it.

"Headmaster, I caught Therese in here searching for the egg." It didn't seem necessary to point out she'd smashed the container, as large shards lay all about.

Snape nodded to him and stepped forward, arms crossed. "Miss Hawbecker, I'd like an explanation. Where did you get the egg?"

Sniffles, rubbing of snot on hand. Severus winced and almost gagged, then conjured a handkerchief and gave it to her. She rubbed her face and blew her nose. "I went into the Chamber of Secrets," she confessed, head down. "It was hidden in there."

"And how did you get in?"

"Salazar Slytherin told me how. I used to talk to his portrait a lot," Therese said as she sniffed some more. "He told me there was a basilisk egg and said I should hatch it."

Severus and Bayly exchanged odd glances. Salazar Slytherin had a hand in this? Then again, it shouldn't be too astonishing, should it? He had created the Chamber of Secrets, he had nurtured the first basilisk. Was it out of the realm of possibility that he'd encourage another young fool to pick up where he left off?

Severus' voice took on a very solemn tone. "Did he say why you ought to hatch it? For what purpose?"

She shook her head vehemently as a new stream of tears poured from her eyes. "He just said it was necessary, that it would be good for the school and—and I could help. I wanted to do something good!" Her small shoulders shook with sobs, which went on for a minute or so longer. The two men waited patiently for them to subside.

"The egg has been disposed of, in case you're wondering," Severus said finally. The girl gasped and her wailing once more increased a few notches. "Miss Hawbecker, please! Surely you have to understand that a basilisk is a very dangerous creature."

"He said it was nice!" she howled in response. "He's mean and awful!"

Here Bayly stepped a tad closer, feeling empathy for the child. He knew full well what it was like to stand before the forbidding Headmaster when he'd done something against school rules, something endangering others. "Did he tell you anything else?"

"Not really, we just talked…about school and stuff," she answered softly. "Am I in trouble?"

"Miss Hawbecker, in light of the fact that no real harm has been done, I am not going to notify your parents at this time," said Severus finally. "However, if I discover you've been up to any more mischief, they will be called in, and you may be expelled." Though he doubted it would come to that, he found it best to scare the hell out of students _before_ they actually did anything too stupid or dangerous. Preemptive fright tended to work wonders, and if he'd had any notion of that blasted egg before this, he could have avoided this scenario entirely.

"I won't—be bad, I mean," she hurriedly assured him.

"And you will receive a week of detention with Professor Young for opening the Chamber of Secrets and keeping a potentially lethal pet." He calmly ignored the disgruntled tacit inquiry coming from his protégé, a why-am-I-the-one-to-be-punished frown. "You will also stay out of the dungeons. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," she answered meekly, not looking him in the eye.

"You may go."

The girl bolted from the room, and her footsteps could be heard echoing down the corridors. When Bayly was confident she was too far away to hear, he blurted, "Why is she getting detention with me? I didn't do anything!"

"Don't be puerile, son. Part of teaching these dunder…pupils is serving detention with them. Unfair it may be, but it's life." Severus spun on his heel and headed for the door, his lips pinched in an angry twist. "It's time to speak with a certain founder."

"Sir, wait!" Bayly loped up beside him. "Is this the end of it, then? You're letting Therese off this easily?"

Severus turned to regard him, a sneer lifting the corner of his lips. "Am I stupid, Bayly? I will continue to watch her, as will you and the rest of the instructors, without her knowledge. She mustn't become suspicious. If she is hiding anything else, we will soon know."

So saying, he marched back along the corridors and right up to the Slytherin dungeon. Bayly gave the password and the door opened for them. They entered the common room, where the portrait of Salazar Slytherin was now prominently displayed above the main fireplace. The students in the common room all looked up warily; it wasn't every day the Headmaster made a visit, and if he was here, it probably wasn't for a good reason.

"Go to your quarters, all of you," Severus said in the suddenly deathly quiet room. Only the fire crackling in the hearth lent any sound.

Most of the students immediately picked up their books and headed for their rooms without a word. If Snape said jump, they weren't going to find out how high. If there were a problem of some kind, Professor Young would let them know later. One or two curious stragglers picked up the pace when Severus growled the singular command, "Now."

The room effectively emptied, Snape strode up to the portrait, who gazed back innocently at him. "Headmaster, first I wish to thank you for having me moved in here. It's so refreshing to have children to talk to again. Is there something amiss?"

"Funny you should ask just as I was regretting my lamentable decision to bring you here," Severus retorted. "Do you know a girl named Therese Hawbecker?"

"Yes," said Salazar, narrowing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "What do you mean 'lamentable'? What have I done?"

"She said—" Bayly began, but Severus stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest.

"Why don't you enlighten us as to what you talk to children about, Salazar," said Severus, bracing his feet apart and crossing his arms, a stance that looked as if he intended to be here a while.

Slytherin returned his glower with an equally menacing one of his own. "If you have something to say, Snape, spit it out."

"Basilisk." That one word, nothing more.

Salazar Slytherin cocked his head, furrowing the spot between his brows till it resembled old wrinkled leather. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, you can't be serious! You're going to launch into a diatribe over something that happened fifty years ago? Maybe I encouraged Tom Riddle unwittingly, but he is dead and gone, as is that basilisk!"

Silence. Cloying, heavy silence while Snape studied the portrait. It was so much harder to tell when a portrait was lying, as he could hardly utilize Legilimency with it. "I was not referring to the dead creature."

"Might I direct you to my previous comment? Spit it out!"

Bloody hell, this insane conversation could go on all evening! Even if Snape had nothing better to do, Bayly did. He sighed a long, hard breath, then at last said, "Therese had a basilisk egg that she claims she got in the Chamber of Secrets at your bidding. Response?"

Horrified pause, combined with an expression of utter shock. "What? That's not possible. How did she…it was in…how could she get to it?"

"By opening the chamber as per your instructions," said Bayly, easing out of Severus' reach as the latter's malevolent aura enveloped him.

"That's a bald faced lie," Salazar declared, shaking his head vehemently. "Yes, I divulged to her in passing conversation that Tom had found a basilisk egg there, and had hidden it, but I never told her to go get it! Egads, how in the world could she even open the chamber?"

"I would assume using parseltongue, as does everyone else who opens it," retorted Severus.

Salazar blinked a few times. "Therese is a parselmouth? No, she would have told me." Did Severus' hawk eyes deceive him, or did the old man wear a distinctly betrayed air?

"So you unequivocally deny having any part in this creature that Miss Hawbecker was attempting to hatch?" asked Severus.

"Of course I deny it! I don't want trouble any more than you do, Snape. There's been more than enough hate and vengeance going around Hogwarts for centuries." A sudden thought struck him, and he leaned forward, almost to the edge of his frame. "Where is the egg now?"

Snape couldn't resist a cruel taunt, knowing that Slytherin had felt some affection for his old 'pet'. "Digesting inside a dragon's stomach…or more likely, already expelled."

"I had nothing to do with it," reiterated the old founder, slumping in his frame, the life gone from his speech. "Believe me or not, I don't really care."

Severus gestured at Bayly with his head toward the exit. "Thank you. I trust if I have any further questions you will be happy to accommodate."

"Why? Because you've been so kind and respectful up to now, and had such faith in me?" snapped Salazar sarcastically, skewering the Headmaster in a fierce glare.

"In my place, would you be any less careful?" asked Snape in all seriousness.

Pause. "No, I guess not. I don't understand: what does—did—Therese want with the egg? Why would she say I put her up to it? I don't understand, she was my friend, we used to talk…" He looked for all the world like he wanted to cry.

Severus shrugged. "I can't say for sure, not yet. If she used you for information, she is more clever than we gave her credit for. I think it's more probable she found you a convenient scapegoat when she was caught redhanded. One way or another, we will find out the truth." _And if you're lying to me, I'll burn your portrait to a pile of ash_. He turned and walked out, leaving Bayly standing abashedly before the portrait.

"I'm sorry things worked out this way, Salazar. Good night." Bayly darted out the door to catch up to his mentor, who was striding along so fast it nearly qualified as a jog. "Sir, are you cross with me for interrupting your…whatever that was?"

"I prefer to do things my way," Severus answered in a clip, not breaking stride. "I had hoped to goad him into spilling what he knew, rather than feeding it to him."

"I'm sorry," Bayly murmured, but the other man kept on moving. "Stop!" At the sound of Bayly's shout, Snape ground to a halt, black eyes raking over the youth, wondering if something was wrong. "You didn't answer the question."

"Why does it matter if I'm cross?" demanded Snape, definitely _looking_ cross. "It's done."

"It matters to me."

All at once Severus understood. At the risk of sounding egotistical, he knew full well that the young man feared losing the affection of the one wizard he trusted above all, respected above all. Bayly never could bear to have Severus angry with him…and truth be told, Severus found it hard to be angry with the young apprentice who revered him so. "No, I'm not upset with you. It's the situation."

Bayly gave a small, relieved smile. "I'm glad. I didn't mean to step on your toes or anything."

"I know. But for future reference, if you interrupt my interrogations again I may lose my control and, as if you were one of my insolent students, warm your bum with the switch in my office." He smirked to himself as he resumed walking, leaving Bayly sputtering behind him.

"No, you wouldn't! Would you?" He trotted after Severus, pleading, "Now you're just messing with me. Right?"

Severus' rarely heard laughter rang down the corridor, answering his question quite succinctly.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 5, 2000**

Borimetchka and Charlie had spent weeks searching for a dragon nest that lent itself to invasion, and now that they'd found it, the group had been assembled for the task. As such, the Weasleys, Harry, and the Black brothers had been in Bulgaria for two days now, time enough to coordinate their plans and get their bearings. At this particular moment in time, they were flying on their brooms in a ragged formation designed to allow them to all see what was to come, yet allow them to break off if necessary.

Ahead lay a mountain range, exactly as illustrated on the map Bori had drawn. To the left, where the peaks swooped upward, lay their destination. Even at a great distance, they could all see the sheer face of a cliff rising. Snow already covered a good part of the mountain, and the wizards shivered at the very sight. Charlie pointed nonetheless and shouted into the air whistling past them, "They may both be there! I'll go in first to draw out one, the rest of you know what to do."

He leaned forward over his broom and shot ahead, straight toward the cliff so it appeared he might collide. All at once he jerked upward at an almost vertical angle, right past the nest where two pitch-black dragons roared at the strange, orange-headed bird. He didn't fear the flames he knew they'd be shooting in a second, for he had cast an anti-fire spell upon himself, and similarly charmed the rest in the group.

As anticipated, one of the beasts jumped from the nest in pursuit of this delectable morsel, and Charlie sped off with it on his metaphorical tail. Ron immediately followed him as backup—in case the creature tired of chasing his brother, it might instead pursue him, and they could confuse it by veering in opposing directions. Draco took the opportunity to attack next, a frontal assault leaving him seemingly open for the eating. When the remaining dragon spied a pale, white bird with yellowish head, she let out a shrill cry and sprang for him, only he wasn't there. He'd plunged below the nest and headed off in the opposite direction of the first dragon. She dipped her head down to look, then without so much as a thought, she was after him.

Regulus and Harry, the designated retrievers due to their skill as seekers, soared toward the nest, where four perfect, large blue eggs beckoned like a siren. From seemingly nowhere, Sirius was at Reg's side, discombobulating the latter. Sirius was appointed to run interference with the rest, he ought to have been with Draco. Had something happened?

"Where's Draco?" Regulus called, chancing a glance about.

Sirius merely grinned and shrugged as if he couldn't hear, and continued to advance on the nest. No, this wasn't real, Sirius knew the plan…at least, Reg had _assumed_ his brother agreed to the plan, but here he was racing for the egg. He wanted to scream that it wasn't a bloody competition! For several seconds they were neck and neck, then Reg began to pull ahead of him; he'd always been faster than his brother.

And then it struck—or rather, Sirius struck. His foot shot out, kicking the tail of Reg's broom, knocking him sideways and causing him to roll partway over, losing ground. Before he recovered his bearings, Sirius cut in front of him, blocking his way and forcing him to dive, sending him in a near tailspin. By the time he'd regained altitude, Harry had snatched an egg from the nest and was flying like the wind away, Sirius escorting him from behind.

Regulus shot a red flare into the air, doubled back and did the same a distance away, then disapparated. He'd done his job, he'd signaled them that the task was complete. They'd disapparate upon spying it, leaving the dragons to return to their nest unharmed…and minus one egg.

Back at the camp, Harry passed the prized egg to Draco, who brought it to Oksana. She shyly accepted it in the doorway as her constant dragon companion, Dragomir, sniffed excitedly at it. "This is not for you, Drago," she said, smiling at him.

"In a way, maybe it is," Draco piped up, patting the young beast on the head. "A playmate for him."

"Yes, maybe," she conceded. "I will place it in warm water for now, near the fire. When Bori comes in, he may want to move it."

It sounded surprisingly like a polite 'get lost'. "Oksana, would you like to go for a walk with me tomorrow? Don't say no just yet, I want you to think about it. We're friends, and I have a girlfriend so you know I'm not going to hit on you. I only want to spend time with you, and get you out of the house more."

"I get out a lot," she stated, daring him to contradict her.

"I don't mean only with Dragomir. You need people." He started to reach for her hand, then pulled back. "I won't hurt you. You know that."

"Yes, I know." There was an awkward pause before she said, "I will go. Thank you for the invitation."

"Sod off!" came echoing across the camp from the direction of the fire where the men had gathered. "You want to know what my problem is? YOU! Filthy, backstabbing glory hound! Go have fun with your f-king Gryffindork friends!" Regulus stormed away with the entire cast of Gryffindor alumni staring after him in shock.

"I'd better go," Draco said, shrugging apologetically. "I'm the only one here from his school House, and apparently he's got issues with the rest."

He followed Regulus into the cabin he'd been sharing with his brother, and stood in the doorway after giving a cursory knock. "May I come in?" Reg nodded from where he'd thrown himself onto his cot. "What happened out there?"

"Didn't you see?"

Draco shook his head. "I was talking to Oksana."

"Not now, in the sky," Reg clarified, sitting up and twisting his features. "When they got the egg."

"Sorry, I was sort of busy with the Weasels—Weasleys—drawing the dragons away on a wild goose chase." He edged forward to sit on the bed opposite his cousin.

"Yeah, and it left the nest open," Reg confirmed, nodding. "I went in to grab one, like I was _supposed_ to according to the bloody _plan_, but Sirius blocked my way and almost got me killed!"

As much as Draco would like to think it wasn't intentional, he knew the old Sirius. He'd quickly have shoved aside his brother to let Potter get the prize. Was the new Sirius any better? He'd hoped so, for everyone's sake. "Are you sure it wasn't an accident?"

"He kicked me, Draco! On purpose. He wanted to capture the egg himself because he's a pompous, self-serving arsehole and always has been!"

Since he didn't care to argue over Sirius' attributes or lack of them, he merely commented, "Little flaw in the logic there, Reg. Potter got the egg, not Sirius."

"I don't care. I'm leaving." Instead of doing that, he fumed on, "I invited him along to spend time with him, and he does this to me." Tears hung heavy in his eyes. "I'm sick of it, sick of thinking he'll change. I'm going home."

"What will you do when you get home?" asked Draco with concern.

"Probably puke from apparating too much, then get hammered and pass out, I imagine," said Reg, rising to his feet. "Thanks for having me here, it was a good time for a while, anyway."

"Reg, don't." Draco grabbed his arm, and Regulus shook it off. "Hurting yourself isn't going to help anything. Listen, why don't you stay in my cabin with me. Tomorrow we can spend the day with Oksana. She…she really needs nice people around her."

Regulus hesitated. He barely knew Oksana. But he was fully aware of what had happened to her, and to be blunt it was far worse than what Sirius had done to him. Yes, he was pissed and hurt, but…well, if he could make Oksana feel a little better, shouldn't he do it? Everyone thought he had a way of livening up a room, when he wasn't shouting obscenities at his brother, that is.

He shrugged and offered a crooked grin. "Yeah, okay. Let me do one thing first." He took out his wand, aimed at Sirius' cot, and mumbled a spell under his breath. To Draco's quizzical look, he said, "Itching spell. Should make his night pretty unpleasant." Then he _accio_'d his belongings and followed Draco from the cabin.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It was more windy up here than he'd anticipated…not bad, simply unexpected. They weren't _that_ high up. On the roof of a twelve-storey building in London, his appearance altered to avoid later recognition, Marshal stood at the edge, one strong arm braced on the shallow wall, holding onto the ankle of a slim man with tattooed arms and a pierced lip…and assorted bruises and facial cuts from the beating Marshal had administered in getting him to this point. A silencing charm around the two kept any conversation pleasantly private, particularly the unearthly wails. He could have used magic to hold the dangling man, of course, but he found the old-fashioned, hands-on approach much more satisfying. Brute strength definitely had its place.

"Why are you doing this?" whimpered the upside down bloke. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth into the corner of his eye. He'd given up struggling when the buff blond threatened to drop him like a rock to the sidewalk.

"Word on the street is you pitched a wee kid off a building just like this one," said Marshal, smiling down at him. "I make it my life's work to find out the truth."

"It's a lie! I didn't—" The sentence cut off abruptly with a hellacious scream as Marshal bobbed him up and down.

"So it's not your fault that a kid is dead," Marshal crooned, letting the man's ankle slide a touch in his grip. "Your lowlife friends seem to think you did it—that it makes you tough." Here he laughed out loud. Tough, indeed.

"I'm innocent, I swear! It never even went to trial! Please let me down."

Marshal paused to pretend to ponder it. Then he said, "You sound very convincing. However, scum are known to lie. Here, drink this and we'll see if I pull you up." He reached over the edge to pass a small vial to the bloke's flailing hand.

"How can I drink it upside down?" inquired the tattooed man, looking at the vial.

"Give it a shot."

"What is it?"

Marshal let out an exasperated breath. "It's not poison, f-khead! If I wanted to kill you, I'd drop you." For good measure, he gave a hearty shake to the leg, eliciting a primal scream. "And you'd best hurry. My arm's getting tired."

The man hurriedly popped the top and sucked in as much of the liquid as he could, as the rest ran over his face. When he'd finished, he let the tiny bottle fall from his fingers, and in the distance they heard the clink of breaking glass.

"Now, I'll ask again. Did you murder that little boy?" asked Marshal.

The other said no, of course he didn't—at least, that's what he tried to say, but his mouth would have none of it. He felt woozy and strange, almost drugged. The words falling from his lips horrified and petrified him with their veracity. "Yeah. I chucked the little wanker right off 'cause his mum called the coppers on me. Bitch deserved it."

Marshal beamed cheerily down at him. "Isn't confession good for the soul?"

"Let me go, please," begged the thin man.

"Alright." Marshal let go. The man plunged twelve floors to his messy death on the pavement below, at last ending the incessant screaming, which was getting on Marshal's nerves. He looked over the edge at the sprawled, bleeding body, then turned and walked away. "Can't stand baby killers."


	52. New Beginnings

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 52 (New Beginnings)

**September 1, 1937**

Hearing from Dumbledore that he was supposed to walk through a wall, and actually walking through said wall were two entirely different things. Tom had lugged his duffel bag full of his school supplies into King's Cross Station, where he ended up at Platform 9, looking like a lost sheep that was trying to look nonchalant and failing spectacularly. He couldn't, without sounding mad, very well ask the muggles milling about, "Excuse me. Could you tell me how I am to get to a non-existent platform that you are incapable of reaching and must be approached through a solid barrier?"

He leaned against a post to observe the people. Most of them raced to and fro on their way to catch a train or to greet someone arriving. An occasional person meandered along as if time were of no consequence…probably worked at the station. And then he caught his break. A family dressed in what could only be construed as a poor attempt to imitate muggles passed him by, the eldest girl pushing a cart loaded with a trunk. When they'd gone not far, they stopped and glanced about as if readying themselves for an illegal activity. Tom slid behind the post, only his head peeking out, and watched in awe as the girl, then the rest of the family, walked briskly right into the wall and disappeared. There he had it, that was the entry point. All he had to do was imitate them.

Easier said than done, naturally. He dragged his heavy bag across the floor and stood in front of the barrier for a minute, contemplating. He knew it was the way, he'd seen it with his own eyes…but it seemed pretty creepy and weird. What if he couldn't get in? What if he got in, then couldn't get back out and was stuck there? Well, no one was going to call Tom Riddle a coward. If a _girl_ could do it, he certainly could. Lifting the unwieldy bag in his arms, he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then plunged into the wall. To his astonishment, he felt nothing at all; one moment he was in the regular train station, the next he was walking out onto Platform 9 ¾ without so much as breaking stride. A smile spread over his face.

Alright, step one complete. Nothing left except to board the train, and find a compartment to settle into for what had been described as a long, but pleasant, ride. He heaved the duffel bag along behind him as he neared the train, and simply followed a group of students who were lining up to board. His bag bumped heavily on each step as he entered, and because he was tired of hauling it he dragged it into the first empty compartment. Great, now he had to get it up on the shelf above the seats. He'd just begun to struggle with it when two boys came in, one dark haired and thin, the other with light brown hair and a sturdy build.

"Need help there?" asked the taller, dark haired lad. Without waiting for an answer, he took out his wand and levitated the bag onto the shelf.

"Thanks," said Tom, turning to them. "I thought you weren't supposed to do magic outside Hogwarts."

"There are adults on the train, no one can tell who is doing it," explained the boy, giving a one-shoulder shrug. "Why don't you have a trunk?"

"It would have been even harder to carry by myself," admitted Tom, being surprisingly forthright with perfect strangers.

"You can always buy one in Hogsmeade later on," said the other boy. He stepped up onto the seat, hoisted his trunk onto his shoulder, and shoved it on the shelf beside the bag. The dark haired boy followed suit, levitating his own, then they plopped down opposite Tom.

The dark haired boy held out a hand. "I'm Quenby Nott. You can call me Nott—in fact, please do." He laughed, and the others laughed with him. "I'm a second year."

"And I'm Lewis Mulciber. This is my first year," said the light haired boy.

"Tom Riddle," said Tom, shaking their hands solemnly. "First year for me, too."

"How come you're by yourself?" asked Mulciber, indicating the duffel bag. "You said you had to carry it by yourself."

"My parents are dead; I live in an orphanage," said Tom, carefully studying them for reactions.

"I'm sorry," said Nott, looking sorry.

"Sorry 'bout that," said Mulciber, looking awkward. He hurriedly changed the subject. "I can't wait till the Sorting. My family's been in Slytherin for—well, like forever. Nott's too. I'm sure we'll be Slytherin. You're not a Gryffindork in training, are you?"

Nott elbowed him in the side, making him grunt, then said apologetically, "My friend tends to say what's on his mind. No tact at all. He meant to ask if your parents were Gryffindors."

"I don't know." Tom averted his eyes, pretending to gaze at the platform. "Nobody at the orphanage spoke much of them; they died when I was a baby." It was true enough about his mother. So what if he didn't have a clue whether his father was even alive; these Slytherins, whatever that was, had no right to know. And what the bloody hell was a Gryffindor?

"If you're lucky, you'll be Slytherin," continued Mulciber, obviously not picking up on the elbow to the gut earlier. "It's the finest House of Hogwarts, even if the rest of the jerks pick on us."

"Sounds lovely," said Tom sarcastically. Being picked on—that was certainly something to look forward to.

Nott shook his head and leaned in conspiratorially. "At least Salazar Slytherin was special, unlike the other three founders."

"Special?" Tom inquired, raising an eyebrow in a manner that came off as derisive when he'd only intended it to be curious.

"You got something against parselmouths, Riddle? Talking to snakes is a rare skill," interrupted Mulciber. "That's why the symbol of our House is a snake—cuz he could talk to them. I'd like to see you try it."

_Oh, __parselmouth_, Tom thought, becoming excited inside. The founder could do what he could do! Surely he ought to be in this House, then, where his skill was appreciated, not looked upon with suspicion. "I have no prejudice against them at all," he said pleasantly. "I misunderstood what you were getting at."

From there the conversation turned to family matters between the boys, who evidently were good friends, and their families socialized with each other. Tom watched out the window most of the time as the train chugged away from the station and made its way across England and Scotland on its way to the castle. He couldn't wait to get there and begin his magical career. For now, he'd have to sit there and listen to these lads blabbing on…

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Sept. 1, 1937_

_ My first day at Hogwarts was magical. That sounds stupid, doesn't it? Of course it was magical, it's bloody Hogwarts! On the train ride, I talked to a firstie boy like me named Lewis Mulciber, who told me his family had been in Slytherin forever, and he knew he would be, too. I didn't ask what Slytherin was or how one gets in it because I didn't want to give away that I am new to all of this. I let him talk and gleaned what I could from it._

_When he said the founder was Salazar Slytherin, and the symbol of the House was a serpent on account of he could talk to snakes, I got kind of excited. I determined that I shall be in Slytherin House as well. It seems only right since I can communicate with snakes, too. I didn't tell Mulciber, though. After seeing Dumbledore's reaction, I realize I have to be discreet. It's better to listen and learn._

_ When the Sorting Hat was put on my head, it took only a second to pronounce me a proud member of Slytherin. I knew it would. From the staff table, Dumbledore gave me the __queerest look, almost like he was disappointed. Why should he care? Unless he's jealous that I got into the best House, and he didn't. _

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 8, 2000**

Livonia woke early, as she'd done for many years. Having a job tended to do that to a person. She looked to her right in the dim morning rays and smiled, letting her hand stroke lightly along Jorab's back. Though they'd been together a scant three and a half months, it seemed like forever; she smiled again at the triteness of the expression. Nonetheless, it was true. She really, honestly had never felt this way about anyone, not even Antonin. The very name made her grimace. In the years of their courtship and Bayly's birth, she'd had him on her mind incessantly; she hated thinking of him now.

Jorab was different. He was sweet and loyal, and sort of shy with her at times, and even though he didn't say it, she sensed how he felt about her. Yes, Antonin had been kind and good to her—but if she'd known what he'd been doing to Bayly, she'd have ripped his heart out with her bare hands. She'd made a terrible mistake…and yet, without Antonin there'd have been no Bayly, and she adored her son with the entire strength of her heart and soul. Despite what she may have deserved, she'd been given a second chance at love, something too many people never had.

She sighed and snuggled in closer to the sleeping wizard, pressing her body against his as she threw an arm over his shoulder. He was mumbling in his sleep again. The first time—the first night they'd spent together—she'd thought nothing of it, till he awoke wild-eyed and panting, uttering unfamiliar curses that she was sure would be dreadful if he'd had his wand. Since then she'd witnessed his nightmares on various occasions, always pondering what they were about, and why they plagued him. Were they remnants of his former life as a Death Eater? She'd never asked, not sure she wanted to know what he'd done in those days, in that life. Knowing him now, how thoughtful and decent he was, she couldn't imagine he'd done anything too awful.

"No!" he shrieked, flinging an arm backward as he lurched forward away from her. The back of his hand struck her square in the eye and she cried out at the same time he shouted, "Get away from me!"

"You hit me!" she exclaimed, more in shock than pain, although it did hurt. "What is wrong with you?"

Jorab leapt off the bed and turned at the sound of her voice, and as suddenly as it had come his ferocity subsided. "Oh, my God, Liv, I'm so sorry!" He knelt on the bed in front of her, and carefully pulled her hand away from her eye, which was already swelling. "I—I don't know what…" He spun round and fumbled at the nightstand for his wand. "I'll fix it."

"No." Livonia backed up until she was out of his reach.

"Honey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You hit me," she repeated, this time sounding surprised and wounded.

"It was an accident. I thought you were—" He stopped cold, mouth clamped shut.

"You thought I was what?"

"Nothing," he said softly, dropping his head. "I'll go. I am truly sorry." He slid backward off the bed and picked up his trousers from the floor.

"You were having a nightmare. Again," Liv said. She hadn't expected him to freeze, but there he was looking like a frightened statue, holding his pants in one hand, eyes wide, waiting to hear what she had to say. "What is it you dream of that scares you so much?"

He didn't answer right away. In fact, she'd become convinced he hadn't heard the question until at last he said, "It doesn't concern you, Liv."

"Really? I'm the one with the black eye here, Jorab."

More oppressive silence that made her want to scream just to hear something besides the tortured beating of her own heart. Jorab slid into his trousers and then picked up his shirt where he'd thrown it on the chair last night.

"Are you going to answer me?" she demanded.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted as he buttoned the shirt.

"You could try telling me what your nightmares are about," she offered, scaling back the angry tone of her voice. "Are they dreams about when you were a Death Eater?"

Jorab averted his eyes to avoid looking at her. "Sometimes. Other times not." He made as if to approach her, but thought better of it and headed for the door. "Please forgive me. I'd never strike you on purpose."

"Don't leave, Jorab." Liv got up and circled the bed to stand in front of him, trapping him between her and the bed. "You can't run away from your demons."

"I can't let them infect you," he countered, trying to squirm past her. "There's nothing to be done about it, Liv, except ignore them."

"That's worked so well up to now, has it?" she asked sarcastically.

She was blocking the doorway, and short of physically moving her, and possibly hurting her again, there was no way out. The window! No, that was daft. The whole bloody thing was stupid. Eventually she'd find out; Dolph wouldn't tell, but Lucius knew, and Nott, and probably Snape, Narcissa—the list went on. She'd hear it from someone else how gutless he'd been…wasn't it better to get it over with, have her dump him now instead of later? His heart contracted painfully. Merely entertaining the notion of her knowing made him a little terrified. Maybe if he were lucky, Bayly would kill him for injuring his mother, and he wouldn't have to suffer any longer.

"I'm not going to discuss my life as a Death Eater with you. Not now, not ever," he said plainly, no room for mistaking it. "And if I tell you about the other dreams, you'll leave me anyway, so why bother?"

Livonia snorted in a most unladylike fashion. "Thanks for the vote of confidence in me. You could let me decide if I want to leave you—which I don't." She tentatively reached out a hand to lay on his cheek. "Rabby, I love you. You know I do. You can tell me anything…you can trust me."

It had been so much easier with Candice. Hindsight taught him he'd been in lust with her, not in love. When he'd had nightmares, she never mentioned it—then again, he'd rarely spent the night with her. They'd engaged in amorous activities, and he'd usually gone home afterward. It hadn't been gentle and tender like it was with Liv, and he'd never experienced the raw vulnerability he felt with Liv. That same vulnerability that he'd known after accidentally killing his father, when Uncle Varden had stepped in and turned his life further upside down than it already was.

"It was about my uncle," he murmured at last, defeated. Dropping heavily onto the corner of the bed, head drooping, he went on, "I guess when I felt you up against me, I thought it was him." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I'm still not used to having anyone touch me…"

_I thought it was him_. Waves of nausea crashed over Livonia as understanding hit: Jorab's uncle had molested him. No wonder he had nightmares! "Oh, Rabby, I'm sorry. I had no idea." She sat down beside him, clutching his hand in hers, laying her head on his shoulder. Had it been only once? How old was he? Had he informed the authorities? She had so many questions, yet it seemed cold to begin spewing them in the midst of his pain.

"It's not your fault," he said, thinking how ridiculous that sounded. Of course it wasn't her fault! "I thought I was over it, till I had to go live with him a few years ago and it all came back."

"He didn't try to—"

"No. Just his presence, the way he talked. I never really forgave him before he died. Then again, he wasn't sorry, either. He said…" _That he thought I wanted it_. His stomach turned remembering the words. Should he tell her? He got the impression they'd be here a while as he spilled the whole story, so he may as well. Surprisingly, the concept of finally letting it all out gave him an odd sense of relief. "I guess I ought to start at the beginning, yeah?"

"You don't have to say anything you don't want to," Livonia answered quietly.

Jorab smiled wryly. It wasn't a matter of what he _wanted_ to say, it was more a matter of what he _needed_ to say, what he'd held in for so long, things he hadn't even told his own brother. "My dad beat me a lot, I told you that. One day when he was pounding on me, I _stupefied_ him and he hit his head on the mantle and…died." He swallowed hard and forced himself to go on. "My uncle said he'd help me, make sure the aurors didn't blame me for murder. I didn't realize that protection would come at such a price…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Severus?" Lucius' face shown in outline in the embers of Snape's fireplace in his office. "Are you there?"

"I'm here." Severus got up from his desk and came over to the hearth. "Hello, Lucius. Is everything alright?"

"That remains to be seen," answered Malfoy, sending a sickening shock down Snape's spine. "May I come through—and bring visitors?"

"What is this about?"

"It's painfully hot in here, Severus, I'd prefer to speak in person." Despite the flames and distortions from the heat of the fire, a scowl was evident on his visage.

Snape took a step backward as he said, "Come through."

His eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise as first Lucius, with Sunny in tow, then her parents came strolling out of his fireplace. This did not bode well. Hell, experience had taught him that any time Lucius firecalled him, it boded ill. However, this particular combination of persons at this particular point in time had to prove more than a coincidence.

Brushing the soot off his robes with an expression of disgust, Lucius glanced up at his friend, then over at the Hawbeckers. "Severus, I don't believe you've ever met Sunny, our sister by way of the _conviare_ spell. These are her parents…Therese's parents." A marginal lift of his brow told Snape that this was more than a social call, and that the last bit of information was the part he meant to address.

"My pleasure, Sunny," said Snape, shaking her hand, then doing the same with her family. "To what do I owe the honour?" The veneration emanating from the couple made him self-conscious and uncomfortable, not an easy feat. While he could appreciate that he was widely known and—to his continued astonishment after years of revilement—respected and admired for his part in taking down Voldemort, he preferred to be out of the limelight, unlike the Brat Wonder.

All eyes turned to Lucius, who was scratching at his hair in an effort to untangle it, then unceremoniously yanked his wand from his pocket and whisked it over himself to eliminate the soot and to zap his locks into proper order. Satisfied that he no longer resembled a peasant beggar, he exhaled roughly and said, "I told them about the recent events."

If the daggers shooting from Snape's eyes had been real instead of mere figments of ire, Lucius would be dead. He'd purposely _not_ made a big deal of this situation! "Did you? I don't see the necessity for that, Lucius." The words were barely coherent through his gritted teeth.

"He didn't mean to spill any secrets. He thought we already knew," said Mrs. Hawbecker, finally breaking out of her bubble of awe. "To be fair, don't we have the right to know what is going on with our daughter? She could have been in grave danger!"

"Your reaction is understandable—" Severus began.

"I'm sure you've reasons for not wanting everyone aware of Therese harbouring a basilisk egg, and it shames us to think of it. But she's our daughter, Headmaster. If it were your child, you'd want to be notified, wouldn't you?" demanded Mr. Hawbecker.

"Yes, of course I would. I apologize." He sent another die-Lucius-die glare at Malfoy, who merely smiled in return. It made him want to smack the smirk off that perfect face. "I did not contact you because I feared you would confront Therese, upsetting her and setting her off her studies. The problem has been eliminated, the egg is destroyed."

Lucius cleared his throat and piped up, "In my defense, Severus, I had assumed you communicated with her parents. When I was a student, Dumbledore spent an inordinate amount of time informing my father every time I stepped a toe out of line."

The Hawbeckers were nodding along, then the wife said, "We don't understand something else. Mr. Malfoy came to see Sunny as he's done loads of times, and he expressed surprise that my daughter is a parselmouth."

"Only she's not," said Mr. Hawbecker, wagging his head. "Therese isn't."

"Apparently she is," Snape responded, beckoning them to sit on the chairs facing his desk. He rounded the desk and sat down, with Lucius off to the side, his hand resting on the little girl's golden head. "No one can enter the Chamber of Secrets without using parseltongue. Therese did not deny doing so when she went in to get the basilisk egg. Additionally, the Bloody Baron heard her speaking parseltongue."

"We'd like to talk with her," Mrs. Hawbecker replied.

"As you wish." Snape clapped three times loudly, and a house elf in a skimpy yet clean orange pillowcase popped in beside him. "Go to Professor Sprout and have her send Therese Hawbecker here immediately. Escort the child here."

"Yes, Headmaster," squeaked the elf, and was gone.

A minute later, the elf reappeared with the firstie clinging to its pillowcase. Therese, spying all the people in the office, grew wide-eyed and backed toward the door. "I didn't do anything bad, Mummy and Daddy. I didn't know!"

Mrs. Hawbecker motioned for the girl to come to her, which she did. She placed an arm round the child's waist and hugged her. "We'll talk about all this later, in private. Right now, I want to know why you didn't tell us you could speak parseltongue."

Therese lowered her eyes and mumbled, "Everybody hates people who can talk to snakes. I don't want you to hate me." Tears hung in the corners of her eyes.

"We'd never hate you, love," said her father, squeezing her between himself and his wife. "We're worried is all. We heard what you did."

"Perhaps you'd like some privacy," said Severus, rising from his seat. "Lucius, if you please." He led the way out of his office and down the spiral staircase, then stopped at the bottom to face his friend. "Have you lost your mind? Has that blond mane attached to your skull finally permeated the bone and choked your brain? What possessed you to say anything to them?"

"What is the great secret that her own parents should not know what's occurred?" asked Lucius huffily. If it had been Draco or one of his other children, he'd have had a royal meltdown if he hadn't been told.

"The great secret is that we don't know if she's up to anything else, Lucius," Snape snapped back. "We're watching her, but by calling attention to her this way, it puts her on her guard."

"What could she possibly be up to?" asked Lucius, frowning. "She's eleven years old, barely has any magical skill yet. There are no more eggs, I presume."

"There are no more," confirmed Severus, leaning in so close his breath felt hot on Lucius' cheek. "But no one suspected what has already come to pass. I shudder to think what type of mischief may yet be up her sleeve."

Lucius shook his head as he crossed his arms. "Honestly, you're so paranoid. What could possibly happen?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake! You had to say that, didn't you?" blurted Snape as he commenced to pacing the hallway, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "That's like the death knell sentence! Thanks so much."

"Hmm, paranoid and superstitious. You really need to get a life, Severus, my dear old friend." He started down the corridor. "I'll see myself out, I know the way. And get a grip, Snape. Everything will be fine."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Are you sure this is what you want, Reg? There is no going back." Oksana stood in front of him, hands on her hips, as he sat on a low stool in the sunshine that beamed onto the cabin porch, twiddling his thumbs.

"I'm absolutely positive," he answered in a clear, strong voice. "I'm tired of looking like him…just seeing myself in the mirror reminds me of what a jackass he is. I'm so glad he went home days ago."

Oksana snickered under her breath. Regulus still hadn't gotten over Sirius' attack on him in the air—he'd been harping on his brother's flaws for days, which she found refreshing. Everyone else tiptoed around her, afraid to say anything amiss, afraid to speak their minds. It felt nice to have a bloke come out and give uncensored commentary on what he was thinking.

"I will give you one more chance to say no," Oksana wheedled. "After that, it is done."

"Bleeding hell, Oksana, it's just hair! Cut it already!"

"If you insist." She raised a pair of scissors with blades large enough to groom a thestral. Seeing the horrified expression on his face, she took her wand and reduced them to a manageable, human size. She circled behind him, lifted the wavy, dark, shoulder-length locks which he'd bound in a ribbon, and snipped it clean off. She handed it to him, and he stared at it for a long moment.

"I've always had long hair, ever since I can remember. My father wore his shorter, only Sirius liked to be an oddball so he grew it long, and I just copied him," he said quietly. "It's strange, but freeing, to get rid of it." He dropped the clump of his mane to the ground. "Continue, hairdresser. I want it nice and short, above the ears. A little flip in front might be sporty."

"Your wish is my command," Oksana laughed, giving a mocking bow.

From inside the cabin, Bori peered through the window at the pair. Oksana was laughing! How long had it been since he'd heard that? For the hundredth time since Regulus had agreed to spend a while here, he gave thanks. The kid was different; he was peculiar, but in a good way…he was special. He wasn't playing an angle, he wasn't trying to flirt with Oksana, he was just being himself. Ah. Was it that simple? From the time Oksana had come back, Bori had been trying so hard to be strong for her, to wait on her, to protect her. Nothing was _normal_. Then this lad came along, gawking at the dragons and bitching about his brother—with good cause, Bori admitted—and Oksana had opened like a flower bud awaiting the proper amount of light and rain.

Now he saw Draco approaching rapidly from across the yard. He got up and went to the door. For the first time in ages, Oksana didn't flinch at the unexpected sound or sight of the big man in the doorframe. He clomped down the stairs to meet Malfoy. "Draco, vhat ees it?"

"The egg—it's hatching!" He'd been watching over the egg in his tent, the rest of his duties suspended indefinitely as he carefully tended the delicate creature and tried to make contact with his mind. In that respect he'd been sadly unsuccessful. "Looks like we collected it just in time, or it would have hatched in the parents'nest."

A joyful smile spread over Bori's face. "Thees ees vonderful! How far along ees it?"

"It barely began cracking the shell," Draco gushed, almost hopping with agitated excitement.

"It von't be long. Let's go, so the first thing it sees ees us." He turned to Oksana, who had stopped cutting Reg's hair to listen in. "Vhen you are finished, come join us."

"I will," Oksana promised, smiling broadly like the rest. Another baby dragon! A playmate for Dragomir. Speaking of whom, where was that naughty dragon? She'd left him sleeping…

"Oksana, chop, chop," Reg reminded her, grinning.

Draco nearly skipped back to his tent with Bori on his heels, his heart swelling. He'd help capture this dragon. He'd be the first to communicate with it—heck, he was the only human he knew of who could talk to it, and getting a dragon from the very beginning was undeniably the best way to establish a rapport. He was so eager and thrilled he knew he must be acting like a small child, yet he couldn't help himself.

"Bori, I didn't say anything before because I wasn't sure. The parents of this baby were both black. Like I said, I'm not sure, but I think the father was Omen. As soon as he escaped he went to his nest to await the birth of his children."

Bori followed him into Draco's cabin, where the egg lay in a nest of straw, surrounded by a warming charm he could feel from the doorway. It was moving, rocking back and forth in sporadic fits as the dragonette inside pecked and clawed to get out. "If it ees Omen's baby, it ees a good sign. He ees strong and clever."

"And forgiving," Draco added softly. "He could have killed me, and instead he dropped me at Durmstrang for Tanassov to find."

A sharp crack split the air as a chunk of eggshell flew into the air and landed on the floor. A spindly black wing popped through the opening. Now they could hear cheeps and shrieks of the animal trying to free itself from the blue cage. The shell shook violently, rolling halfway round and back again, before another sharp snap that rent the shell in two. The baby spilled out into the nest, panting and cooing, and lay there recovering from its ordeal as the men watched in silent awe. It's face was long and pointed like Omen's, it's body completely black save the deep blue eyes, and it seemed so very helpless. At last it looked at the faces peering its way, cocking its too-large-for-its-neck head and fluttering its wings.

"He's beautiful," Draco breathed. With one finger he stroked the animal lightly on its back.

Bori scooped a massive hand under the dragonette to lift the tiny being and brought it to his chest in a soothing hug where it could feel the beat of his heart. He extended his arm a touch to get a good look at the creature, to examine it in detail; the infant squawked indignantly when he turned it gently round for inspection. After a few minutes he then set it down again. "I think you mean _she_ ees beautiful," he smiled, right before the dragon let out a delicate sneeze, sending a small flame that caught a few stray straws on fire. "So, vhat to name our new little girl?"


	53. Lessons

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 53 (Lessons)

**December 15, 1980**

"Oh, that is sooo not fair!" Bellatrix screeched. Automatically her wand whipped around and shot a hex at Dolohov, who diverted it fairly easily.

"You wanted me to be referee," Dolohov replied evenly. "The rules were no death hits and no curses while the opponent is down. You hexed Avery again after knocking him down, so he wins."

"I won!" she growled low in her throat, advancing on him like a lioness on her prey. "I don't care about your stupid rules!" She threw another two curses his way in quick succession, but they missed when he scrambled behind one of the large boulders in the field and cast one back at her, forcing her to defend herself.

In a split second the air was filled with spells of every color flashing back and forth between them, most to be turned aside, others to be dodged, both faces filled with grim determination mixed with the primal joy of battle. Avery, Sr. picked himself up of the ground and pulled his son with him to a crumbled section of the castle wall where they could watch in relative safety.

Dolohov sent a red spell streaking so close to Bella it singed the tip of her hair; she retaliated with a curse that blew apart a large section of the rock he was hiding behind, and another that nicked his arm with an accompanying roar of pain.

"You bitch!" he bellowed, flinging three hexes in a row. The first and second she blocked with a sneer on her lovely face; the third—a purple slash—came within a finger's width of taking her down. A slight look of shock washed the sneer away.

"Bitch, you say?" repeated Severus, smirking off to the side.

Furious as they were, they turned to glower at the newcomer who stood with arms crossed, gleefully observing the duel. Bella spat at Dolohov to show her disdain, then lowered her wand as she approached Severus.

"What do you want?"

"Charming as ever, Bellatrix," he drawled back. "Never fear, I guarantee I didn't come to visit you."

Like a light turned on in a darkened room, Bella's appearance changed abruptly. She sidled up to him smiling—which alone was enough to rouse alert flags—and said in a silky sweet tone that sent chills down his spine, "We're getting ready for a muggle hunt. Care to go with us?"

"Nooo," he answered warily, backing off, his self-preservation sensors shouting 'DANGER' at record levels. "I'd prefer to live another day, thank you."

Having ascertained that Bella had finished with her tantrum and was relatively harmless at the moment, Dolohov came over to join them, as did the Averys. He gave Snape a peculiar, insulted look. "Are you insinuating muggles could outfight us? Well, _you_ maybe! Or is it that we're such bad aims we might miss and kill you?"

Using the most tactful manner he could muster, which sadly was only a notch above outright hostile, Severus said, "I'm not insinuating anything. I'm merely stating that Bella tends to be irrational and would use any excuse to get at me."

As if to prove him right, Bella threw a curse at him. Wand at ready, anticipating such an attack, he easily deflected it. "Case in point."

"Halfbreed!" she snarled.

"Lunatic!" he shot back. Keeping his wand up, he backed slowly toward the castle. "We could go on all night insulting each other, but as delightful as that sounds, I need to see the master." He was saved from another onslaught of curses, both verbal and magical, by the arrival of Rodolphus and Rabastan.

Apparently Bella had been awaiting them, and she glanced about curiously. "So where's blondie?" she demanded.

"Lucius isn't home," Rodolphus replied. "Off at work or something."

"Are you sure he wasn't hiding behind my sister?" she snickered.

Severus had frozen in place when he heard Lucius' name, his stomach lurching with revulsion though he maintained a straight face. "Lucius was going on this 'hunt' with you?"

Rabastan snorted half with laughter, half with contempt. "Right! Do you see him? Bella insisted we go invite him so she could crow over his refusal. He'll wish muggles dead, but he won't get off his arse and do it himself, as you see." He gestured at the open air around him.

Severus grunted noncommittally, more relieved than he cared to admit. For the briefest moment he'd actually considered the possibility that Lucius had fallen wholly into the depths of Death Eater depravity, and the thought shamed him now. While Lucius was definitely no paragon of virtue regarding the treatment of muggles, he was no murderer. By necessity a liar and a manipulator, even occasionally a tormentor, but not a murderer.

He resumed walking toward the castle with Bella's voice in his ears, "Sure you don't want to join us, Snape? I promise not to kill you _on purpose_." Visualizing her sneering as she spoke, he ignored her and kept going, resisting the urge to tell her to sod off. That would only cause another confrontation he really didn't want to get into right now.

Bella's snarky attitude was nothing new, he expected nothing less from her; finding Lord Voldemort in the castle kitchenette wearing a high-collared, furry blue robe and eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon—_that_ he had not anticipated. Severus drew up sharply, forgetting to shield the shock on his face.

"M-my lord," Snape stammered, his mind going blank. He ought to be doing something, what was it? Oh, yes! He dropped to his knees on the cold floor.

Voldemort waved the spoon in a circle with a twist of his wrist. "Rise." It sounded rather muffled through the gob of peanut butter.

Thirty seconds of extreme awkwardness passed by in what seemed hours, what with the dark lord swirling the food in his mouth with loud smacking sounds that made Severus cringe. _Merlin's Beard, does he always eat with his mouth open?_ Severus regained control, forcing his features into obedience. He would _not_ wrinkle his nose with distaste no matter how appalling the scene became. He was a Death Eater, he was stronger than that!

"Have you a problem with my wardrobe, Severus?" asked Voldemort with an icy edged tone as he finally noticed Snape gawking at him.

"No, master, I-I just have never seen you in anything except black." _And not fuzzy with a belt tied in a bow at the front._ He was honestly afraid to look down lest he see a pair of bunny slippers poking out from under the table. Death Eater and spy or not, he wasn't sure he could take that with a straight face. Before he considered that it might be inappropriate to comment on it he blurted, "And I don't believe I've ever seen you eat before."

Voldemort's lips twisted upward. "What do you think, Severus? That I am capable of surviving without food? I'm flattered at the abilities you ascribe to me."

_Shut up, Snape! So help me, I'll kill you myself if you open your trap with another lame, ridiculous remark_, his brain warned him. And it wasn't kidding. "My lord, I have news. The teaching post at Hogwarts—Defense Against the Dark Arts—will be vacated at the end of the year. Again. It's almost as if the position were cursed, the way it runs through professors."

"Indeed," grimaced the dark lord. Satisfaction shone through his apparent nonchalance. "It does seem that way, doesn't it?"

"Yes, my lord. I thought perhaps you'd like to send a spy to take the job so—" That was as far as he got.

The evil wizard shushed him with a raised hand, his red eyes dancing with the joy of finding a perfect opportunity to torment one of his underlings _with cause_. Ordinarily he took out his frustrations and anger on his men, which was only proper, but this—this was training a Death Eater to be better than he was. He felt almost like a schoolmaster preparing to instruct using the simple pattern he'd set for himself long ago.

1) Remind the Death Eater of his past failures/transgressions.

2) Elicit copious amounts of apologies and pleading, if possible reducing the man to tears. That always made his day.

3) Demand better service in the future, accompanied by physical reminders to perform better—again, reducing to tears being the primary objective, with agonized suffering merely incidental, albeit savored.

"I sent you for that job last year, did I not, Severus?" Step one commencing.

"Yes, my lord." Snape hung his head. How he hated this game the dark lord played! He couldn't believe none of the others had pieced together the obvious sequence. Or perhaps they had but dared not mention it.

"You failed to acquire the position." Step one complete.

_Damn it, he's finished step one already!_ "There were extenuating circumstances, master, and I did bring you the prophecy," he said softly, waiting for the first curse to be hurled at him, while hoping for the best.

Voldemort paused, vaguely disconcerted. This wasn't how it was supposed to go! Snape should be on his knees groveling and begging forgiveness, not throwing in his face an accomplishment! On general principles he slung a _crucio_ at him. Now that was better; he may not be groveling, but at least he was crying. With a glint of triumph in his eye he lifted his wand.

"I'm sorry for my insolence," Severus panted in a croak. Why had he thought that responding differently would change the game? Nothing _ever_ changed the game. "It won't happen again."

Good enough, Voldemort supposed. Step two complete. Not as gratifying as he'd like, but it would do. "Because I am merciful, I will give you another chance to demonstrate your worth to me. You will apply for this position again, and this time you will not fail, is that understood?"

"Perfectly clear, my lord."

Voldemort smiled inwardly, pleased to see how well his method was working. He really did have a knack for teaching, didn't he? His disciplinary techniques worked far better than those ineffectual detentions used at Hogwarts! Damned Dumbledore missed out when he denied the greatest wizard of all time the job, that's for sure!

"So you don't slip again in your duty, I must give you a taste of what awaits you if you fall short again." He raised the wand, Severus squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, and another _crucio_ sent him howling onto his back.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 15, 2000**

_December 15, 1980_

_ Severus came to me with excellent news. The Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts is opening up again. No great surprise, of course, since I hexed the post years ago. I'm actually rather astonished Dumbledore hasn't even tried to figure out the curse and reverse it. Or perhaps he has, and is simply not as clever as I give him credit for. I am the better wizard, after all._

_ I'd almost forgotten that I applied myself at one time—or tried to, but Dumbledore in all his arrogant glory refused me the chance to prove myself. Not that I should have to prove myself to anyone, but human nature being what it is, they all need a show of my might. Hence the need to use the __Cruciatus__ on Snape today, to teach him a lesson. I really am an excellent educator! When I set my mind to it and use the established methods, I see results. If that isn't bloody good instructing, I don't know what is._

Severus rolled his eyes as he gazed involuntarily up at Dumbledore's portrait. For all intents and purposes, this day had begun his teaching career at Hogwarts, for better or worse. He had yet to decide which. No, that wasn't true. It had eventually proven for the best, only because he'd met Aline here. Only. The word made him shake his head and smile wryly. She was _only_ the best thing ever to happen to him, the one person who knew him intimately, in every imaginable way, and loved him anyway. He supposed he ought to thank Dumbledore for that…ought to. Didn't mean he was going to.

And seriously. The dark lord thought himself a wonderful instructor? If _crucio_'ing your students to tears constituted good, Voldemort was Teacher of the Century. Hell, Snape had been a professor here for twenty years, and he still didn't think of himself as a good teacher. Yes, he knew the material inside and out; yes, he could verbalize and demonstrate the necessary details…but when it came to the braindead cretins he was supposed to shovel the information into, the link was broken. There was only so much a mortal man could do. Then again, he was a tad more constrained than the dark lord had been, what with not being allowed to use torture and all.

He didn't need to scan the entry again, the vision remained as vivid as ever. He recalled that day, mainly for the torture, but also for the fear he'd felt at thinking Lucius had sunk to the lowest level. As for Rabastan and Rodolphus…how times had changed. He'd known them to be enthusiastic partakers in the murder department, and of late things had turned on their heads. He wasn't altogether sure how committed Dolph was to the transformation, but he sensed in Rabastan—Jorab—a tremendous difference. He truly was not the same man he'd been all those years ago. Definitely for the better.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 15****, 2000**

"Twelve thousand galleons! That's highway robbery, no matter how you slice it," Lucius fumed, sounding decidedly indignant to the witch on the other side of his study door. There was a short pause, then, "Oh…twelve thousand _pounds_ does sound much more reasonable. I can hardly be blamed for the confusion, after all. Must we use muggle-speak?"

Narcissa craned her neck to lay her ear against the door. If he were in there with a client or one of his attorneys, she hated to interrupt. She raised a balled fist to knock.

"Well we don't live in the muggle world, do we?" Lucius asked snidely.

Who the hell was he talking to and why wasn't this person answering at a level which she could hear? If she got any closer to the door, she'd be fully plastered against it.

"I trust your judgment, Romulus. If you think it wise as an investment, do whatever is necessary to procure it." A second later the door was flung open and Lucius stood half-frowning, half-smirking at his wife caught in such a compromising position. "I'll call you back." He pocketed the little black mobile phone and crossed his arms as if to ask for an explanation.

Narcissa righted herself, smiling sheepishly. "Hello, dear. I was going to ask if you wanted to take the children to the park."

"In mid-December, my love?" cooed Lucius, that self-satisfied smile never leaving his face. "If I did, you'd surely warn me of the dire circumstances wherein our children would catch pneumonia."

"It's a pleasant December," she shot back, flushing. Alright, he'd caught her—though how he'd known she was there remained a mystery. She didn't exactly clomp about like an elephant. All that notwithstanding, she had to know! "Who were you talking to? Was that your mobile foam?"

"Phone, dear," he corrected her, his smirk turning to a chuckle. As much as he adored her for the sophisticated, strong woman she was, she was so sexy when she was innocent! "I was speaking with Romulus Young about a new property—a muggle property. Don't wrinkle your nose like that! Getting in on the ground floor of a new project is the best way to make a bundle."

"Can I do it?"

"Do what? Negotiate in the real estate market?"

"No! May I talk on your _phone_." She drew out the 'n' sound to make certain he didn't tease her about it later. Not that it was any kind of guarantee, mind. Lucius did take perverse pleasure out of proving her less able to maneuver about the muggle world than he was. Without waiting for his answer, she extended her hand, palm up, and waited.

Lucius heaved a disgruntled sigh. "Do you remember how?" He took the phone from his trousers pocket and flipped the top open. He had very few people he communicated with on this muggle contraption, so he hadn't thought it worth his while to try figuring out how to save contact numbers. "Here. Press the numbers I write down for you." He scrawled a hurried note on a bit of parchment and passed it to her.

She snatched it from his palm, studied the key pad, and dutifully pressed each digit, squealing with surprise at the beeps emanating from it, and when it began to ring, her eyes grew round as tomatoes. "It's making a funny sound!"

"Hello, Lucius," said the voice through the earpiece, giving her a jolt although she'd been semi-aware of what to expect.

"Hold it close to your ear, Narcissa," Lucius advised, even as he took her arm and guided it to her face.

"Um…this is Narcissa Black Malfoy," she said hesitantly, abruptly at a loss as to what to say. She felt like a fool talking to a man not even in the same house, let alone anywhere near her. It seemed as though she were babbling into open air, to herself at best. "Hello, Romulus. How very peculiar to hear your disembodied voice."

"Narcissa!" Apparently surprise ran both ways, for Romulus seemed downright shocked. "I wasn't expecting you."

The witch, picking up on his astonishment at the knowledge that Lucius had shared this plaything with her, couldn't resist a giggle. "Hi, it's me. I never used one of these muggle things before."

"It's quite an invention, isn't it? Pity the wizarding world is so resistant to devices that would make our lives simpler," said Romulus.

"Indeed. I suppose it is a pity. Why, Lucius never even lets me play with his toy—I mean _this_ toy, not his…um…you know—"

At this point Lucius wrestled the phone from her hand, his face flaming right along with hers. Hearing his associate snickering on the other end didn't buoy his confidence. "Forgive my wife, Romulus, she isn't quite herself just now."

"I want one," Narcissa announced loudly, poking her husband in the ribs. No explanation was necessary, he knew all too well of what she spoke.

Lucius nodded curtly as he mumbled something into the mouthpiece, then said to her, "For Christmas. I'll get you one for Christmas, alright? A beautiful one to match your exquisite style. Now may I please get back to work, darling?"

"Of course, love." Smiling broadly, she flounced across the room, swinging her hips as her skirt swayed suggestively. A quick look backward at his enthralled, appreciative gaze told her he'd suddenly lost interest in the phone call. Pursing her lips, she blew him a kiss and minced from the room. She was getting a wonderful present for Christmas. Too bad she'd have to hide it from everyone, including Draco. At least she could call Lucius when he was away…or she was away. Whatever. She was getting a magnificent gift for Christmas!

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

When Winky apparated into Spinner's End, she immediately hunched and did a full circle turn in anticipation of attack from that jackal elf, Kreacher. He was nowhere in sight, but that didn't mean anything. Probably hiding somewhere, sneaking about like a leprous old…hiding elf…thing. Stinky, hiding elf. It didn't matter, she wasn't here to see him, and if she was lucky, he'd be at Grimmauld Place tending to the master he truly deserved, that arsehole Sirius. She felt completely at ease thinking of Black in such terms, for she'd heard Master Snape use it frequently. In fact, for a long time she'd thought it was all one word, thatarseholesirius.

A grimace tugged at the corner of her mouth, and her bug-eyes narrowed a touch. She needed to see Master Regulus, but she dared not call out in the event of…well, the aforementioned stinky Kreacher. Padding softly across the floor, she peeked into the kitchen, which was empty. Not in the living room, either. Before bothering to go upstairs, she'd check the entire lower level. She was nothing if not a thorough elf, one of her proud traits.

She treaded lightly down the hall and into the spare bedroom, which was also unoccupied, not to her surprise. Furrowing her brow and pressing her lips together, she placed her hands on her hips. What was that noise? Very familiar…water splashing. Then the toilet in the bathroom downstairs flushed. Ah, he was in the loo!

Trotting out of the room, she made a beeline for the loo. The door was open, so she naturally assumed Regulus was done with whatever business he'd been attending to. At the doorway, she came to a screeching halt—literally, she screeched as she halted. Master Regulus was not there, it was her worst nightmare…well, perhaps not her _worst_ nightmare, but definitely in the top five.

Kreacher looked up in alarm, then his surly countenance settled back to its normal churlish expression. Still stooping over the toilet, brush in hand, he sneered, "What is Finky doing in my master's house?"

"I is Winky, stupid Kreacher," she corrected, adjusting the bow on her bald head. "And is not Master Regulus' house, is Master Snape's!" She pulled a face at him as he glared. He could hardly argue with the truth of it. "Mistress Snape sends Winky for Master Regulus."

"Good Master Regulus isn't home," croaked Kreacher. He brandished the toilet brush menacingly. "Maybe Finky elf comes to see Kreacher because Kreacher is her fantasy."

"Kreacher is insane even by house elf standards," she sniffed huffily.

"Insane am I?" Kreacher repeated, grinning evilly. He dropped the toilet brush into its holder, then lurched forward, grabbed the female elf on either side of her head with his enormous hands, and pulled her in for a hard kiss on the lips. "There!"

"Aaaargh!" screamed Winky, flailing her arms helplessly until he let go, at which point she glanced around in a panic, hyperventilating, and suddenly threw herself onto the floor to dunk her head into the toilet bowl. _Dunk, scream, dunk, scream_.

Chuckling over her, Kreacher said, "Now who looks mad, Finky?"

That did it. She'd come on an errand for her mistress, she'd not come to be insulted and humiliated by having such repugnant lips touch her own. Winky's spine tightened, and slowly she stood up to her full height, her head and face dripping water onto her pale pink pillowcase and the clean floor. A growl emanated from the back of her throat. "Winky!" Decidedly strong hands seized Kreacher by the back of the neck in an iron grip, and she plunged his face into the toilet repeatedly as she shouted, "Winky, Winky, Winky!"

From the doorway, having overheard the commotion from upstairs, Regulus observed the elf fight with curiosity and a little fear. If it weren't for the fact that he considered all house elves a little psychotic, he'd think Winky was a bit off. Gradually he backed up, almost in slow motion, trying not to be spotted. To no avail.

Winky lifted her eyes to see Black standing there. Instantly she let go of Kreacher, who fell headlong into the toilet, then pushed himself away from the toilet bowl to land with a thump on his rump, sputtering and gasping for air. "Master Regulus, you is here!" She skipped over to him, seemingly forgetting her nemesis.

"Hello, Winky. What brings you here…or are you here to kill Kreacher? Because I really need him." The glance he shot Kreacher surreptitiously asked if he were okay. Kreacher scowled and popped out of the room, and Reg could hear the rattling of pots in the kitchen. It was a good sign that he wasn't upset with his master, only with the horrid little she-elf.

"Mistress Snape sends me for you," explained Winky blithely. "She is needing some potions from the cellar. She asks Winky to have Master Regulus fetch them for Winky." She produced a list from a non-existent pocket of her pillowcase and handed it to the wizard.

Regulus scanned the list and nodded. "I know where Snape keeps the potions down there. I'll be a few minutes." He headed for the cellar door, only to find the elf on his heels. "Or you could come with me."

With the wizard's wand lighting the way, they proceeded down the steps, and Reg turned to the right, into a small alcove lined with wooden shelves, upon which were set dozens and dozens of dusty vials and bottles and even jugs of various brews. He blew gently on the labels, comparing the names to those on the list, every now and again removing one and handing it to the elf. When Winky had fulfilled her duty, she politely thanked Regulus and, her treasure firmly folded in her arms, apparated out of the house from the cellar lest she have to see malevolent Kreacher again.

Reg plodded up the stairs and stopped in place, moaning and scowling at once. "What the—? Why are you here?" Damn it, he'd been in a good mood!

"Smells good in here. I take it Kreacher is cooking," said Sirius.

"Piss off, Sirius."

Sirius rolled his eyes and swaggered into the living room to plop on the sofa. "I can't believe you're still mad. It's been over a week. Is that why you didn't come home from Bulgaria till yesterday?"

"Who told you I was home?" asked Reg, cocking his head.

Sirius grinned. "Who do you think? Kreacher."

"He made me tell, Good Master Regulus," pleaded the old elf even as he threw himself onto the floor, wailing and pounding his head on the slats. "Evil master makes Kreacher tell."

"Kreacher, stop it now! I will not have you punishing yourself," ordered Regulus. The elf stopped and looked up at his master with watery red eyes. A large bruise now adorned his forehead. "I don't blame you, I'm not cross with you. Please go finish supper."

Kreacher slumped out of the room and into the kitchen. Sirius shook his head in disgust. "Stupid elf. Look, Reg, maybe I shouldn't have kicked you, but you're being a baby about it. Why can't you just get over it?"

"Get over it? That's your answer to everything, isn't it? Ever since we were kids, every time you do something to me, I'm supposed to forgive and forget." He walked over to stand in front of his brother and stare him down as he ranted, "Why can't I get over it? Because you're a selfish bastard, that's why! You don't care if you get me killed, as long as you get the glory of the hunt!"

"Bullshit," answered Sirius. "You're too good of a flier to crash or fall from a little buffeting. We both know it."

"I notice you don't deny wanting to snatch the egg yourself. Or were you trying to help your godson along, as if he needs any more fame." Reg actually felt bad for the last line. Harry hadn't done anything to him, and he had no beef with him, nor did he think Harry was complicit in Sirius' antics. But he was angry and upset, and as such the words tended to roll from his tongue unchecked.

To his amazement, Sirius admitted, "I was trying to get it myself." Was it Reg's imagination, or did the older man look ashamed? No…had to be his imagination. Sirius never felt bad for anything he did.

"So it didn't matter that Charlie told you to cover Draco, right? Our own cousin, in case you forgot. What if he'd been in trouble? You wouldn't have been there to help him!" Regulus fought the impulse to kick Sirius in the leg. "Then again, he's just a Slytherin, it doesn't matter what happens to them."

"Stop it, Reg. Now you're being melodramatic. I might not be all touchy-feely about Malfoy, but I'm not gonna let him get killed."

"How could you have stopped it? You weren't there, you were busy pushing me out of the way, remember?" Regulus fixed him with a piercing glare.

"I'm sorry."

"You're pitiful is what you are. Self-centered and pitiful. You jump all over me for every flaw, but at least my faults are only hurting me." He turned and started to walk away. "I don't wanna talk to you anymore. Get out."

"Reg, come on. Just listen," cajoled his brother, rising from his seat to follow.

At dizzying speed, Regulus whirled on the other wizard, eyes aflame, fists clenched. "Listen to what? Pathetic excuses? Sorry, heard about all I can take of those."

He stomped to the door, wrenched it open, and waited. When Sirius refused to go along peacefully, he snapped. In a heartbeat he was on his brother, and in a scene reminiscent of their childhood, he was dragging Sirius bodily to the door as the latter resisted, clawing at the furniture and finally bracing himself in the doorway with outstretched arms. In a fit of fury precipitated not only by the most recent slight of his brother, but by a compilation over the years, Reg hauled off and punched Sirius in the ribs. Sirius spun round, automatically striking back, and hit Reg in the chin. Regulus stumbled, righted himself, and charged with his head to the other's stomach. It took them both down in the doorway, half in and half out, Reg landing on top, where he sat astride Sirius pummeling him furiously. Sirius made no effort at this point to defend himself.

At last Reg forced himself to get up and walk away, panting from exertion and ire. "Why won't you fight back?" he demanded.

"Because I deserve it," Sirius muttered, struggling to a seated position and wiping at the blood coming from nose and mouth and a cut over his eye. "Did it make you feel better?"

"Yeah…no…I don't know," he answered, shrugging and shaking his head. He honestly didn't know how he felt right now. "Just go, Sirius. Please."

Sirius got to his feet. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and turned to the door. When he'd crossed the threshold, he stopped and attempted once more to say something, then merely wagged his head and staggered out.

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Draco adjusted the leather sling over his shoulder, sliding it to fit comfortably across the chest while hanging down to his waist, and gently laid the new baby inside, where she nestled in and looked up at him with a cheep. Several days ago Bori had constructed the sling from dragon hide (to prevent the baby accidentally burning it or _them_), and Draco, Bori, and Oksana had been taking turns carrying the dragonette with them to keep her warm and safe. Only a moment ago he'd finished feeding her mangled remnants of meat that he'd pounded to mush and mixed with meat tenderizer to simulate the regurgitated food her mother would have fed her.

"You are a gorgeous little darling, aren't you?" he cooed at her, and she fluttered her wings in answer. A faint image—more like a feeling—teased the corner of his mind. He was so close to having a connection with this dragon; perhaps she was simply too young to have any complicated thoughts yet.

From around the corner he heard a snuffling in the dirt, and Dragomir came trotting into sight. He stopped in place upon spying the man and dragonette, and came waddling up for a look. With the thoroughness only one of his own kind was capable of, he peered into the sling, nosed the baby, and sniffed her at great length. Draco had to wonder what kind of information he acquired by it. Once or twice Dragomir's tongue flicked out to lick her.

Draco found it rather amusing that Dragomir had never seen a baby, and couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that there existed one smaller than himself…smaller, weaker, punier. Yes, that was the sensation he'd been getting from Drago—pity! He felt sorry for this pathetic creature that wasn't even able to walk on its own, let alone fly. Draco hoped this feeling of pity wouldn't turn to jealousy later as the baby continued to receive loads of attention.

Just thinking it made him ashamed all over again of how he'd acted when baby Ladon was born. He'd been such an arse, jealous and stupid. But he loved Ladon with all his heart, as he hoped Dragomir would come to love Sineglazka. Blue-eyed girl. He'd thought it very appropriate when Oksana proposed it.

"Draco, there you are." Oksana rounded the corner and smiled at the sight before her. "Did she eat well?"

"Like a starving wolf," he chuckled, and Sineglazka cheeped loudly. "I guess it's your turn to mind the chick."

She nodded even as she accepted the sling he took off himself and placed over her shoulder, careful of the baby cradled within. She looked down at the bundle with the love a mother gives her child. "Is this what it is like to have a child, I wonder?"

"Sort of," Draco said. Oksana's head jerked up toward him, her gaze inquisitive. He laughed. "I have a baby brother and sister. They're a lot younger than me, so I'm practically like a father to them when I go home. They follow me around and want to be held all the time, and I have to change nappies and feed them."

"They sound sweet."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "They are. I miss them." He absentmindedly petted Dragomir, who'd begun rubbing up against his legs. "I was thinking of going home for a visit—for Christmas, but now that Sineglazka is here, I hate to leave her."

"Bori and I will take good care of her," Oksana said. She'd been stroking the dragonette's head, and it had fallen asleep. "I think you want to see your girl, no?"

Draco's cheeks tinged pink. "I miss Astoria, too. I'll talk to Bori about it." He started off toward the cabin with Dragomir, who cast a wistful glance back at Oksana as if torn between who he should stay with.

"Draco, Bori is in the north field where they are training a dragon." She stood staring at him, hesitant to say anymore, yet evidently needing to. He turned to veer off in the opposite direction when she blurted, "Tell him my heart is ready."

"Uh…what?" Draco stammered, halting. "I can't tell him that! He'll think I'm a fruit."

She laughed lightly. "He will know what it means."

Draco took a single pace in toward her, his head cocked. "Do you love him?"

It was her turn to blush, and she lowered her head so her blond hair cascaded forward, covering her face. "What do you think?"

"I think you'd better invite me to the wedding," said Draco, grinning.


	54. The Game

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 54 (The Game)

**February 12, 1938**

Tom waited till the rest of the students had handed in their potions to Professor Slughorn and vacated the room, then he left his bag of books on the table when he came up to offer his own brew. He started to put the vial into the holder along with the rest, but the teacher took it from his hand and held it up to the light. A low whistle reverberated through the room.

"Tom, I'm surprised at you. This is not only the wrong color, it's not even the right texture; it's too thick and gloppy. See how the sheen on top of yours is yellow, and that on my demonstration vial is orange?" said the professor, still studying the potion. He sniffed it, immediately thrusting it away from himself. "Yes, indeed, this has got to be the worst you've ever done. I regret to say, Riddle, that these past few classes your marks have been far below your potential."

"I'm very sorry, sir," said Tom, looking contrite. He almost laughed out loud at how easy it was to feign contrition to this man. So far so good, he'd got Slughorn to look at the concoction and deem it unacceptable. "Is there a way I could make up the points…an essay, maybe?"

Slughorn peered at the youth before him, wrinkling his brow. When had he ever had a child ask for extra work? He was used to begging, pleading, even the occasional tear of a student hoping to get their way, but he truly could not recall a time a pupil had requested more work. If he assigned it, most of them had done it…but this was so unusual it touched him. And poor orphaned Riddle, who had spent Christmas holiday at the school because he had no one. Perhaps he was simply feeling lonely, that's why his grades were slipping.

"That's an excellent suggestion, my boy. An essay would really help you sort out what's what so you don't fall behind the class." Slughorn nodded along with himself. "Since you've got more than one class to make up for, how about three feet of parchment detailing why henbane surpasses mandrake in every brew of this nature?"

"That sounds fair," said Tom, startling the old teacher. He'd expected a protest at such an extensive paper. "For that length, though, I'd need to go into the various types of potions using henbane and mandrake, and compare the composition of each herb in order to discuss how and why their properties react as they do. For example, they both have hallucinogenic and psychoactive properties, and can be poisonous."

"That's exactly right, you would need to do that," Slughorn agreed proudly. He was right, Tom wasn't a slacker at all, he'd just had a bad couple of weeks.

"Um…sir," said Tom shyly, ducking his head and lifting only his eyes to the old wizard. "I don't recall seeing many books in the library that address this problem. "

Ah, true, true. Slughorn leaned in close to the lad, so close his mustache tickled the boy's cheek, and said softly, "I can help you there. I'll write you a note to get into the Restricted section of the library. There are several books devoted to potions there, and I'm sure they hold everything you need."

"Can you do that? Let me in there?" asked Tom, wide-eyed.

"Of course I can, I'm a teacher," responded Slughorn, winking. "It's highly unusual to permit a firstie in there, so mind your manners, Riddle, or I'll take note not to allow it again."

"Yes, sir!" Tom waited patiently while Horace scribbled off a note, then he hurried out, grabbing his book bag on his way. A smirk escaped him as he headed out the door. That had been easier than he'd anticipated, and now he'd be able to get into the Restricted section under the pretext of looking for potions books. Yes, he'd need to look at those, too, but what other wonderful things might he find there?

He made a beeline for the library, presented his note to the librarian, and was soon strolling along the long shelves laden with ancient, heavy tomes. _Magical Beasts of the Underworld._ How anyone knew what was in the Underworld escaped Tom. _Creatures Great and Small._ Why did that sound familiar? Now he passed the creature section into the Dark Arts. He stopped and just stood there, taking in the splendour of it.

At last he shook himself out of the trance to peruse the titles briefly. _Desires of the Dark._ Sounded more like a silly paperback novel than a serious manuscript. _Unknown Calamities._ If they were unknown, how did they write a book about them? Riddle moved slowly along between the shelves, studying book titles up and down as he went. _Grotesque Oddities of the Wizarding World._ That sounded promising. He pulled it from the shelf and shoved it into his bag. _Light, Dark, and In-Between._ That, too, went into the bag. No one would miss them, and he'd be sure to sneak them back when he returned the potions books he'd yet to come across.

_Wards_. Simple enough title, sounded dull, to say the least—but it was in the Restricted section. Tom removed it from its place, dropping it loudly to the floor; he'd not realized how heavy it was. Kneeling down beside it, he began to read where it had fallen open.

_There are several sorts of blood wards, among them the Sacrificial Blood, Family Blood, and Fidelius Charm. Variations exist among the Family and Sacrificial types, making the list far too long to address in this simple volume, though we shall go in depth on the basic, core wards and how to cast them. _

_ In contrast to the Family Blood Ward, which requires the creator to use a measure of his own blood in the spell, and cannot be broken by anyone outside the direct family, the Sacrificial Blood Ward demands a sacrifice of blood from whoever wishes to __break__ the curse. This is particularly useful when one desires to keep a person or persons away from a certain location; if said person is determined enough, he must then weaken himself by spilling a portion of his blood—_

"Riddle, are you nearly finished in there?" called the librarian.

"Not yet," he called back, pushing the book into his sack in a panic. "I've not yet found the potions books."

"Do you need help?"

"No, thank you, I'll sort it out." He scurried down the row, frantically looking for titles

that seemed related to plants.

"You've got another ten minutes, then I must ask you to leave," she replied.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice sounding strange to his ears. He had better hurry. She'd expect to see the books he was taking, meaning he'd need to put them in plain sight as he came out so she didn't suspect he had more hidden away. Potions, potions—there they were! He yanked all of them off the shelf and began to leaf through to see which he might be able to use.

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_Feb. 15, 1937_

_ A few days ago Professor Slughorn allowed me into the Restricted section of the library, where I found a most amazing assortment of books on Dark Arts. I had never really thought much about wards until I found this incredible volume that details every type imaginable. I've already learned some of them, and I plan to learn loads more before returning this book. There are even several types of blood wards. I don't know what I'd ever use them for, but it's best to be prepared, I think._

_ I completed the essay I owed Slughorn, and of course I received an Outstanding. Now that he's given permission once for me to enter the Restricted section, he may do it again without my having to resort to trickery.__ I noticed today a box of crystallized pineapple on his desk; I get the feeling he may be fond of it. That may come in handy later._

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**December 17, 2000**

Frigid wind gusted down Diagon Alley, and Daphne pulled her deep blue cloak round her shoulders as she shuddered. She'd like to think it was only the cold giving her chills, but naturally there was more to the story. There always was. Biting her lip in that nervous tendency Sirius liked to tease her about, she passed by Peak's Portraits where Snape's daughter worked. She'd never got on with Jacinta, especially after finding out she wasn't pureblood, but that was neither here nor there. She wasn't here to talk to Jacinta, she had a mission.

Several storefronts down, she paused, drew a deep breath, and pulled open the door. Warm air rushed out to envelope her, and she hurriedly stepped into its welcoming arms. Shaking the slush from her shoes, she entered and then slid her feet over the meter-long doormat for a semblance of dryness. All around, the shop hummed with people, but there was only one she was interested in. She walked slowly down the main aisle, glancing left and right each time she neared an intersection.

"May I help you?"

The voice came so unexpectedly from behind that Daphne feared she'd have wet her knickers had she not relieved herself mere minutes ago. She whirled to face Regulus, dressed in the standard scarlet Weasley work robe. "Ah—Reg. You scared me!"

"Hey, Daphne!" he smiled back. "I didn't know it was you. You seemed lost."

"No, uh….I was actually looking for you."

A dark cloud of suspicion fell upon them almost instantly. "Why?"

"Can we talk in private?" Daphne gestured at the throng of people milling about.

Regulus hesitated, then shrugged. "I guess I can take my break now." He pointed toward a door in the back of the shop. "Let's go in there."

It turned out to be a fair sized room, not the broom closet Daphne had expected. Apparently it was used as an office, for it held a desk scattered with numerous piles of papers and various other strange items she assumed were merchandise of some sort. She sincerely hoped none of it was going to jump up and bite her.

She waited till the door had closed, then piped up, "Sirius told me you'd cut your hair. He hates it, of course, but I think it looks superb."

"Thank you." Regulus came over and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his visage set in a world-weary pose. "I doubt you came to compliment my hair, Daphne. What does he want?"

"Who?"

"Do we have to play the game? Sirius sent you; what does he want?" repeated Black in an irritated tone.

"Sirius didn't send me, Reg." She pushed a pile of empty boxes off the chair beside the desk and seated herself with a sigh. "He told me how he acted to you in Bulgaria, and then two days ago he showed up at my doorstep bruised and bloody, and he said you'd done it." Noting the expression on Regulus' face, she added, "I don't blame you. I'd be mad, too. It's just—he didn't do it to hurt you, or for glory. I doubt he even understands why he did it."

Lifting his brow, Regulus smiled derisively. "Oh, well, that makes everything alright. As long as Sirius hasn't got a clue why he acts like an arse, that makes it okay."

"You don't have to be sarcastic."

"What do you want, Daphne? You're obviously here trying to patch things between us. You want me to welcome him with open arms so he can stab me in the back again?" asked Reg incredulously. It would be like Sirius to send her with such a ludicrous request!

"No," she replied, keeping her voice low. She had to ask herself, what was she doing here? Sirius would have a conniption if he found out, and Regulus was certainly being uncharacteristically antagonistic. Nevertheless, they were both so very unhappy with the way things were, and it broke her heart for them. She heaved another sigh. "I wish you'd try to understand. All his life, Sirius was the 'bad son'. You were the 'good son'. He felt like he had to compete for your parents' love, only he couldn't win, and finally he stopped trying. He appointed himself warrior against all things Black—that predictably included all things Slytherin."

"Including me," said Regulus quietly. He recalled all too well the fights they'd had in school, the bad blood between them even when they attempted to be friendly. "What's your point?"

"He's not one to overanalyze, but I am. I think when you two were flying, he reverted to the competitive mentality of trying to 'beat a Slytherin'—the enemy."

Regulus rolled his eyes. Daphne did the same, adding, "Yeah, I know."

The wizard shook his head. "So in his mind, I'm the _enemy_?"

Pause. "I think, maybe, sort of. Not consciously, though. Sirius really does love you, yet he spent many years hating Slytherins and Death Eaters. And you were both."

"I guess _you_ get a pass because you weren't a Death Eater," Reg snarled, grinding his teeth. It was literally a lifetime ago, and Sirius still couldn't let it go! Maybe Severus was right when he called Sirius 'Dog-boy', since the mutt was like an animal with a bone he refused to relinquish.

"I haven't tried to compete with him." She gave a weak, dry laugh. "I'm a terrible flyer, he'd likely knock me off the broom first thing."

"Why do you stay with him?" asked Reg suddenly.

Taken aback, Daphne shifted in her seat. "What?"

"He's obnoxious, rude, opinionated…dangerous," he went on, studying her for a reaction. "What do you see in him?"

"He's also gentle and kind—he is, Reg! He's a good listener, he's funny and talented—"

"And handsome, don't forget that," Reg interrupted, scowling. "All the ladies think he's something special; they don't realize what that smug exterior is covering up. Oh sorry—you were saying he's a sodding star from heaven, bright as the sun. Do go on." He snorted and rolled his eyes again.

Daphne looked back at him, her chin quivering slightly, and if she'd burst into tears she'd have won the argument by default, but she did not. "Now you're just being mean."

"No, I'm protecting myself," he answered softly, shaking his head. "You should take note; just like a star, if you get too close to Sirius, you get burned. I have to get back to work." He lurched upright from his leaning position on the wall and headed for the door.

"He cried, Reg."

The man stopped in his tracks, not sure he'd heard what he thought he had. Sirius tried? Pried? Fried? None of those made sense, and yet Sirius wasn't one to weep or be a crybaby; in fact, as far as Reg knew, the last time he'd shed tears had been when Reg died. After Lucius brought them both back through the Veil and they'd been revived, they'd talked a lot, they'd been as close as Regulus ever remembered, and Sirius had confided that he'd come to Reg's funeral under cover of Potter's invisibility cloak. He turned to Daphne with a quizzical expression.

"Yesterday he was in his room at Grimmauld Place, and I came to visit. I went up without announcement, so he didn't see me." She truly seemed upset now, and not because Reg was refusing to cooperate. "I've never seen him cry. It kind of scared me."

Reg swallowed through a tight throat. He'd opened himself up to Sirius so many times, only to feel betrayed in the end. "I punched his face in. He was probably in pain."

Daphne lifted her eyes to him, eyes so heavy with anguish it radiated toward him. "I'm not stupid, and neither are you! He realizes he's hurting you; I believe he's afraid of losing you forever. Do you really want him out of your life, Reg?"

"Maybe," responded Reg flippantly. Then he frowned and slumped against the wall once more. "No. But I can't take it anymore, trusting him when he says he's going to change, and being let down over and over. I love him, too. But I need to know I can trust him, Daphne. I need to know he's got my back. Right now, I don't know that. If you were smart, you'd dump him and—"

"I'm not going to do that! Can't we help him, Regulus? It's evident he can't do it alone, but he's not all bad, is he? He's _trying_," she pleaded with him.

Regulus ducked his head to stare at the floor. He couldn't bear looking at that accusing face, which bothered him all the more because _he_ wasn't the one who'd done anything wrong! He hadn't nearly knocked Sirius out of the air, had he? No. He hadn't been the one all those years in school making trouble for the Gryffindorks, had he? No, Sirius and his cronies had been the ones out to get the Slytherins. He hadn't told everyone how stupid and pitiful his little brother was for becoming a Death Eater, for being his parents' favorite, for getting himself killed… Reg ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

At last he said, "If Sirius wants my help, he can come ask for it himself. You asked me to try to understand him; well, I do understand. It was hard for him growing up, but it was no picnic for me, either. I became a Death Eater so my parents wouldn't turn against me like they did him—I had to prove to them I wasn't like Sirius." He stopped, one hand rising to cover his mouth as the words caught in his throat. He thought he'd never have to revisit that time of his life, and here it came following him like a bad penny.

"I'm sorry, Reg," said Daphne, barely audible. That decision to join the Death Eaters had been what ended up getting Reg killed…and he'd made that decision at least in part because of his brother. Despite the fact that he seemed very reluctant to discuss it, she'd discovered a lot about it from Draco, such as Reg had died while stealing a locket horcrux from the dark lord. He'd been trying to bring down Voldemort, even as Sirius lambasted him for his association with the wicked group. Could she honestly blame him for being resentful? "You don't…you don't blame Sirius for your death, do you?"

Regulus lowered his hand and cleared his throat. "No, I knew what I was doing. This is about a whole lot more than that, Daphne. It's about Sirius and his blasé attitude, always expecting everyone to cater to him. It's his turn to hold out the olive branch. If he can't lower himself to apologize to me for the way he's treated me—not only now, but in the past—and _really mean it_, I don't want any part of him. I have to go now." He walked out before she had a chance to speak again.

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Two days after reading the diary entry, the question still boiled in Severus' mind. Why hadn't the most talented and powerful wizard in the world broken the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post? Surely Dumbledore recognized that it existed, and he undoubtedly had the skill—or if he'd said the word, a team from Gringotts would have come running to break it for him. Had he enjoyed the stream of nitwits and incompetents that paraded through every year, wreaking havoc on the student body and denying the children adequate defenses for themselves, only to be gone by the following semester? He certainly must have, since he'd not only failed to remove the curse, he'd also steadfastly denied Snape the opportunity to teach in that capacity. Or were those two somehow connected?

Time to get some answers. He spun round in his chair to face the old Headmaster's portrait, his countenance blank as a sheet of parchment. "Albus, I read something in one of the diaries, and it preys on my mind. Perhaps you could clear things up."

"What is it, Severus, my boy?" asked Dumbledore, in the chipper fashion that frequently made Severus want to ram a fist into the portrait's mouth on general principles.

"Were you aware that Tom Riddle had placed a curse on the Dark Arts position here at Hogwarts?" inquired Snape.

The portrait twitched ever so slightly, and the twinkling eyes lost a bit of their luster, then Albus said, "I had my suspicions. Why do you ask?"

Severus shrugged his thin shoulders in the I'm-pretending-not-to-care-but-really-can't-wait-to-hear-your-pathetic-excuse way he had. "I merely wondered why you—the most powerful wizard in the world—didn't ever try to reverse the curse."

"Why didn't you?" Albus shot back, catching Snape off guard. "You saw the same things I did, and I happen to know your mind never rests. You must have speculated on the possibility."

"Don't you dare throw this onto me," Severus began in a growl. "It wasn't my place. And even if I tried, I wasn't yet Headmaster. The castle's relationship with you would probably have been necessary for such an endeavor."

Dumbledore didn't answer for a long spell, during which he rummaged through his little bowl of gumdrops. Hadn't it been taffy yesterday or the day before? Snape had long suspected the old coot used that tactic to buy himself time, for he frequently found himself searching for just the precise candy at the most inopportune moment.

At last Albus said, "It wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't worth the trouble."

"We suffered through innumerable dullards and shysters," Severus countered, jogging Dumbledore's memory. "I could have taught the class, but you'd have none of that. And don't give me the 'I was worried it would be too much of a temptation' bullshit. If working as a Death Eater for the darkest wizard the world has ever seen didn't permanently scar me and send me over the edge, I doubt teaching about spells would have."

"And who would have taught Potions?" asked Dumbledore. "Your talent is unequalled in that position."

"Hardly," remarked Severus, surprising himself. Only a few years ago, he may have agreed with that assessment. Since then, he'd learned many valuable lessons. "Aline is every bit as qualified as I am. Somewhere, others must exist."

The old wizard let out a long, defeated breath of air. "I didn't want you to get hurt or killed or driven off if I gave you the job."

"Afraid you'd lose your spy?" Snape asked, curling his lip into a precursor to a sneer.

"Don't be so cold, Severus. I care for you, no matter what you may think."

"And yet," Snape pushed on, "I get the feeling there is more than that. If you do truly care for me, stop jerking me around, Albus! Be straight with me for once. Haven't I earned that?"

"That's hard to do when you interpret everything in a manner highly unflattering to me," Albus retorted, sulking. "You want the truth, here it is: I was apprehensive of losing you, as a teacher and a spy. More importantly, I did not attempt to break the curse because it was the one sure way I had of knowing Voldemort was still alive. If he'd died, the curse would have disintegrated with him. Happy?"

"Positively elated," drawled Snape in a deadpan voice. He could not have looked less elated if he tried. "So the glaring brand on my arm…what about that?"

"Lest you forget, Severus, it disappeared when Voldemort nearly died many years ago. It wasn't until he began regaining strength that the Mark returned and grew darker." He shrugged lightly. "It was unreliable."

Although he disapproved of the method, Snape couldn't directly fault the logic. It made sense to keep tabs on the dark lord, to know what he was up to…particularly the knowledge of whether he were alive and may return to fight for power. He had to admit, Dumbledore was a wily old wizard, always keeping his options open. What if Dumbledore had removed the curse? If Severus were to leave or die—and considering how precarious his line of work, it was highly probable at some point—Albus would lose his only means of knowing what Voldemort was up to, or if Voldemort were even alive, unless he had access to another Death Eater whose Mark he could read. It always came back to the 'greater good', didn't it?

"Thank you for finally being honest with me," said Severus, in a genuine display of sincerity. "Although I can't say I appreciated being the pawn always left in the dark. I could have done so much more, so much better, had I known things you held back. The horcruxes, for example."

Dumbledore wagged his head gravely. "Please, don't start on that. I regret many things, Severus. Among them is my lack of faith in you, despite the hardships you endured, the sacrifices you made. I am sorry."

Now what was he supposed to say? He couldn't argue with that. Damn it, he hated it when people insisted on being conciliatory when he was in the mood for a quarrel. "It's done. There's nothing for it now. I've a meeting."

"On Sunday?"

"It's not school related. Goodbye, Albus."

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"Is this it?" Lucius stood outside in the chilly wind, his cloak whipping about him, as he stared in fascinated horror at the cubby of a store they were about to enter. Merlin's beard, he could fit the entire shop into his main sitting area!

"I assumed you'd been to such a store before, Lucius," said Severus, his black mane swirling in the breeze, slapping his face at intervals with stinging precision. He opened the door and stepped in out of the cold. "You have a mobile, don't you?"

"Romulus gave it to me," Lucius explained distractedly. Ugh, the bricks were filthy, the paint peeling from the sign. Had these muggles no pride in appearance? Need he ask? What a silly question! Was their hideous clothing not proof enough of that? Adjusting his navy blue robes, he followed Snape into the store, careful not to touch anything with his bare hands. "Why are there so many muggles milling about? Haven't any of them jobs?"

"Shut up and get in the queue," said Severus, pointing to the short line in front of a tiny podium-like stand in the middle of the floor where names were taken to be called in order.

"At least they painted in here," Lucius observed, scanning the walls and ceiling. It actually looked clean, and the store was practically bare except for a few shelves stocked with items along two walls, which made his complaints harder to formulate. "The things I do for my family. Narcissa will be the death of me yet."

"I just talked to Albus. He had the nerve to tell me he knew all along about the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post," Severus said, changing the subject.

"Smells like a pigsty in here," commented Malfoy, moving up one slot. The woman ahead of him glanced back, then did a doubletake; he stared back unabashedly. He was not going to apologize for long, well-kept locks, nor for expensive, tailored clothing. "Not that I've ever smelled one, mind you, but I can imagine. I did smell Aberforth's goat pen."

Snape ignored his rant and continued, "And he didn't do it because he was making certain to keep me around."

"My darling wife had better appreciate this."

"Oh, sure, he claims he needed to know if Voldemort was alive, but what good did that knowledge do him since he refused to trust me?"

"What in bloody London are you blathering about?" demanded Lucius, narrowing his eyes to grey slits. "Aren't you even listening to me?"

"About as well as you've been listening to me," Severus shot back. "Here, sign your name, then wait to be called."

Lucius picked up the ballpoint pen and lifted it to the light to examine it. How very quaint…oh, why be kind when he meant 'how very pedestrian'. No feather, no ink well. Ugly little things, if utilitarian. Oh, but it did have this first-rate chain hooking it to the podium as though anyone might be tempted to nick it. He snorted under his breath. He had heard of these devices—_pins_, he believed they were called. Not wanting Snape to think him a total rube, he put the object to the paper and signed his name with a flourish, then thrust the thing down and rubbed his fingers on his pantleg.

"Now what?" he asked as Severus pulled him out of the way so the next person could sign in.

Not a minute had passed before they heard a name announced over a gritty speaker. "Lucius." It sounded like Loo-shus.

"He's calling you," said Snape, elbowing him in the side.

"That's not my name," Lucius maintained serenely.

"Loo-shus Malfoy."

Lucius involuntarily raised a hand when he recognized his surname; Severus gave him a shove to indicate he was to go meet with the man. He sauntered over and gave the representative a cool once-over, deliberately snubbing the fellow's attempt at a handshake. Enunciating slowly, he drawled, "The name is pronounced Loo-see-us. You may call me Mr. Malfoy."

The salesman smiled politely, his brows quirking a tad. "Sure, Mr. Malfoy. Right this way. What can I do for you today?" He led the wizard to a tiny booth and seated himself on one side. Lucius pulled a face before seating himself on the opposite side, straight-backed, scarcely perched on the obviously contaminated chair.

"I'd like to purchase a mobile phone for my wife. A nice one, not one of those cheap pieces of rubbish they're hawking over there." He indicated to his right with a twist of his wrist holding his cane. The serpent head stared unrelentingly at a group of young people chattering away. "Blue, if you've got it. And not just any blue—it's got to be vibrant like the very sky on a cloudless day, reminiscent of my lady love's delicate blue eyes."

"Yeah, I'll see what we can do." He took a brochure out of the desk drawer and presented it to the weirdo in opera costume and wig. "The price range is quite extensive—"

"Money is no object. I'd also like a rundown on all the functions each of your wares is capable of," stated Lucius, smirking. This ragging-the-muggle game had the potential for being kind of fun…in the way that playing Russian roulette was fun. When it came down to it he was, after all, stuck here conversing with a muggle.

The bloke motioned to another man across the shop. "Phil, I'm gonna need some help over here."

Severus covered his face with one hand and groaned. This was going to be a long, dismal day for all involved. Maybe if he sneaked out now, no one would realize he'd come with Lucius….

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Sitting on the bare dirt in a section of the camp without any dry grass—lest it be accidentally burned—Draco shoveled the last bit of tenderized raw meat into the upturned mouth of the little black dragon. She made a few attempts at chewing, then swallowed it in one lump that moved slowly down her esophagus like a rat through a snake. After a minute she hiccupped a feeble stream of fire that missed him by inches.

"Alright, it's time to get some exercise, lazy one," he cooed at her.

From behind his back Draco drew out a very lifelike facsimile of a fish attached to a string. He stood up, now towering over the beast squatting in the dirt, and dangled the fish over her head and in front of her face. Eyes alight, she let out a high, piercing shriek and lunged clumsily. Missing it by a mile, she waddled unsteadily toward it, mouth open, only to have it snatched from her jaws at the last second. She screamed her displeasure and flapped her wings, and before Draco realized what she meant to do, she'd emitted a deliberate rush of flame that engulfed the toy, destroying it.

"Well, that wasn't supposed to happen," he mumbled, looking at the charred remains. "You've ruined your plaything."

Sineglazka glared imperiously at him. She actually rather looked like she was smirking, though he wasn't entirely sure a dragon could smirk. She then waddled in a small circle two or three times, curled up, and flopped on the ground as if to say she'd had enough of this human invention of exercise.

"She killed the fish?" asked Oksana, who'd been watching from the porch.

"Yes. I guess she doesn't like to be teased." He bent down to scoop her up. He waited for Oksana to put on the leather sling, then handed over the dragonette for her to carry. "Do you mind if I go talk to Dragomir for a while?"

"I think he is in the kitchen," she answered, pointing for him to go in the cabin. She followed him in, where Bori was waiting for her to return. They'd been having a lovely conversation about nothing in particular, and she'd been enjoying it immensely.

Bori's gaze landed on the young woman holding the dragon to her bosom and rocking it softly. His heart fluttered like a tiny pair of dragon wings in his chest, and he rose to his feet. "Sineglazka." (_Blue-eyed girl_.)

Oksana looked up at him with eyes every bit as bright blue as those of the animal she held, and smiled coyly. "Na men li govoris ili na drakoncheto?" (_Are you talking to me or the little dragon?_)

"Kak mislish?" (_What do you think?_) he said softly.

The witch adjusted the sling, more to take her gaze from him than out of necessity, and the wee creature murmured its disapproval at being disturbed. "Kakvo ima, Borimetchka?" (_What is it, Borimetchka?_)

In two strides of his long legs he'd crossed the room, his boots thumping loudly on the wooden floor in the silent air. He stopped in front of her, hesitating as if he hadn't a clue what he intended to do now, then tentatively reached out to grasp her arms in his huge hands. Gently he pulled her in to him, the dragon in the pouch nestled between them. Wistful, longing dark eyes met hers as he bent in close and murmured, "Mozhe li?" (_May I?_)

It wasn't as if Oksana hadn't known how he felt—he'd made it perfectly plain quite some time ago, after all. It was…well, she was used to a man being more forward, seizing what he wanted. And then with a sickening thud in her stomach she understood: Bori may be a dragon trainer, but he was still a gentleman; after what had happened to her with Sashko, he'd go out of his way to show her he'd never take anything from her without her consent. The revelation felt strange, yet nice.

She lifted her chin to him. "Da. I za tvoe svedenie—za v badeshte niama nuzhda da pitash." (_Yes. And for future reference, you don't need to ask._)

He touched his lips to hers, and they were every bit as soft as he'd thought they would be. When she kissed back, he found himself pressing his body to her, curtailed by the squawking baby being squished between them. He chuckled and pulled back a tad, just as Draco reentered the room from the kitchen. Seeing them in a semi-compromising position, if snogging could be categorized as such, Draco coughed lightly.

Telegraphing his awkwardness by looking everywhere but at the couple, he chattered, "I'm still here. Dragomir is sleeping against the back door, and I can't get out without using magic to move him, and then he'd get upset."

Oksana turned halfway round, smiling at his discomfort. "Is okay, you can go out the front." She'd noticed the flustered expression on Bori as well, and the image tickled her.

"Did you want me to take Sineglazka?" asked Draco, extending his hands for the bundle.

"No, I will keep her," said Oksana, stroking the dragonette's head. It cooed in return.

Draco moved on past them, and as he neared the threshold he paused to say, "I'm glad you two finally stopped the dance."

"Ve vere not dancing," said Bori. How had Draco mistaken what they were doing for dancing? He had a girlfriend himself, he ought to know better—and there wasn't even any music.

"Playing the game," Draco said, which apparently didn't clear up much. "It's obvious you want each other."

"Game?" asked Bori. What did dancing and games have to do with wanting each other?

"A figure of speech, my good man," said Draco, grinning. Oksana could explain the idiom to him later. "I'll come by tomorrow before I leave for home. Goodnight."


	55. Nott This Time

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 55 (Nott This Time)

**June ****2, 1938**

"What are you waiting for? Kill it!" growled Mulciber at his chum.

"I don't want to kill it!" Quenby Nott shouted back, earning him a shove from the other. He raised his eyes, full of an emotion Mulciber understood instantly. The boy's voice lowered in volume and tone to an ominous command, "Just leave it alone. And leave me alone." The wand in his hand lowered, though he didn't put it in his pocket.

Mulciber backed away. He'd known this boy all his life, he realized when he'd pushed Nott too far, and this was it. If he said another word, he was liable to get hexed himself, and he'd rather not explain to the hospital staff where the boils came from, or why he sported a broken arm, or why his nose now resided on the back of his head.

"Fine, do whatever you want," Mulciber said. "I'll tell everybody you were too cowardly."

"Kiss my arse," retorted the other.

He waited till his friend had cleared out before kneeling in the dirt just inside the Forbidden Forest. He wrapped his outer robe round one hand and used it to gently pick up the baby bird that had fallen from the nest above. It flopped and twittered weakly in his palm. Examining it up close, he smiled to himself. It was so cute, so innocent; why would anyone want to kill it for the sake of killing it? Mulciber had serious issues.

Using his wand, he carefully levitated the tiny creature into its nest, then backed down the path, watching the nest to see if the mother returned. When he'd gotten too far, he turned and walked the remainder of the way across the grass to the castle.

Tom stepped out from behind a tree, peering at his comrade as he left.

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_June 2, 1938_

_We go home for the summer in a couple of weeks. I don't want to go. This is the first time I've been away from the orphanage, and I like it. I wish I never had to go back. There is so much to do here, so much to learn, so much magic to practice, which I can't do outside of school. It's not fair._

_I witnessed something very strange today. Nott and Mulciber had gone into the Forbidden Forest, so naturally I followed to see what they were up to. They came across a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. Mulciber, not surprisingly, wanted to torment it and kill it. Nott wouldn't allow it.__ I don't fully understand why. It's just a stupid bird, what does he care? There are millions more where that one came from. I've done in plenty of animals myself, and I am perfectly normal. Maybe Nott is the oddball._

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**December 19, 2000**

This paper seemed very familiar. At times, grading essays turned into a nightmare of words that all began to blend in with one another, but this was different. It was _too_ familiar. Bayly leafed back through the stack of completed Potions essays until his eye caught a particular one. Removing it from the stack, he looked it over, his quasi-good mood extinguished. He held it next to the parchment he was currently marking, his gaze shifting back and forth between them. There was no doubt: one of these students had copied from the other, and done a pitiful job of it. What kind of student reproduces an essay word for word and doesn't expect to get caught?

Bayly sighed heavily. He still had to complete the rest, so he may as well get it done before confronting the little cheater…or cheaters. Had they worked together on this? He'd corrected only one more before his heart stopped in his chest: another one exactly like the first two! And this one had a name he'd have never believed—Therese Hawbecker. Aside from the basilisk travesty, she'd not stepped a toe out of line. She was highly intelligent, always got excellent marks. In fact, as he read through the assignment once more, he felt certain this was her work, her style, and the boys had copied from her.

"Damn it," he whispered into the cold, still air.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I've asked the three of you to stay after class because of these essays you wrote," Bayly explained, producing the parchments. He laid them out on the table in front of the children, facing the students. "Do you see anything unusual about them?" He regarded their faces carefully.

The pupils crowded in to read the papers, and suddenly Therese burst out, "You copied from me! You cheaters! Professor Young, it wasn't me."

Interestingly, the boys did not dispute her claim. Jonathan Avery attempted a grin that fell flat when he looked at the adult wizard. "Sorry. It's just you're so smart, and I always do bad at Potions." He ducked his head.

The other boy, Donald Pritchard, moved away from the others, shaking his head. "It was his idea! He stole it from her bag."

"And you felt compelled to replicate it?" asked Bayly. Both of these boys were in Slytherin House, Bayly knew them—and they had to know they'd be punished more than another student not in this professor's House. Come to think of it, why hadn't Oswald Quirke been in on this little deception? He was the last member of their firstie gang; then again, he was sorted into Ravenclaw by the Sorting Hat, he was inherently clever. He didn't need help.

"Professor—" Therese began again, pleadingly.

"I believe you, Therese. You may leave. You boys will serve detention with me tonight to rewrite that essay on your own. And be grateful you go home for holidays tomorrow, or I'd make it for a week." Was that really punishment enough? At Durmstrang, he'd have been beaten senseless for cheating; he couldn't very well advocate that. Yet this punishment seemed far too light. "Also, as your acting Head of House, I must assign additional penalty. When you come back from Christmas vacation, I'll let you know what it is. Go."

The lads scrambled from the room, only to find Therese waiting down the hall for them. No one else was around. They mumbled general apologies to her, and she answered with a lightning fast, hard spell that knocked them off their feet. Tumbling to the chilly stones, they held their stomachs, writhing in silent agony.

"Don't you ever do that again," she hissed. Motioning toward their common room with her wand, she added, "Go to your House before you get in more trouble."

Donald sat up, struggling to hold back the tears. "My brother's gonna tell on me."

"How will he know if you don't say anything?" Therese inquired, cocking her eyebrows.

"Every time a Slytherin gets in trouble, the rest of the House knows," Jonathan explained, getting to his feet. "If we'd lost points, they'd beat us up."

"He's gonna tell my dad and I'll get whipped," whimpered Donald.

Therese walked up so close her nose touched his. "Not if your brother is too distracted by his own issues to think of tattling on you."

"What issues?"

"That remains to be seen." She turned abruptly and strode off down the corridor.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 20, 2000**

There he was. Graham Pritchard, seventh year. From behind a post Therese scanned the platform again; it was teeming with students waiting for the Hogwarts Express that would take them home for the Christmas hols. She'd considered getting him alone, but this worked out even better. Accidents happened all the time…it was most excellent if loads of witnesses saw the accident.

The young man was standing in a small group of Slytherins, his back to the tracks. Therese smiled wickedly. This was just too easy. A stumbling hex and he'd topple right into the path of the oncoming train. Wouldn't that be a shame? However, if she killed him there'd be an investigation, people would come to question them all…it was too risky for that. Besides, Donald loved his brother, and he'd probably sing like a canary concerning everything he knew about Therese if anything too awful befell the elder Pritchard.

Overhead, a flock of big, black birds swarmed past the station on their way to the Forbidden Forest. Now was the time. Therese aimed her wand surreptitiously at one of them and concentrated hard. The addled bird dove downward, straight at Pritchard. The gang around him shouted and fell back as the bird attacked, pecking and clawing the young man as he screamed and beat at it with his hands. His friends shot spells at the creature; however, since it was moving violently, several of them struck the boy as well. By the time one of them managed a hex that stunned the bird, Pritchard lay on the platform in a motionless heap, his face bleeding.

He'd live. He may carry a scar or two if the medi-witch tending him were incompetent, but aside from that he'd be fine. Nonetheless, it was doubtful he'd be thinking of tattling on his younger brother when he had so much more important things to talk about now. After all, they concerned _him_.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 20, 2000**

It was that time of year again—time for the annual Christmas Ball. In lieu of a fundraiser, Narcissa had opted for a nice, quiet celebration with only family and friends…and most of the list of purebloods, including the Jugsons, Hawbeckers, Livingstons, Greengrasses—the list went on, though it did not include Daphne, since Sirius was not invited. She simply did not feel up to making small talk with people she neither knew nor cared for, nor did she want to argue with Lucius over ruining the party with the 'Mutt's' presence. Lucius had a cold way about him at times.

Udo Nott: she'd wrestled with that one, as she did every time there was a get together that included more than ex-Death Eaters. He'd been a staunch friend to Severus for many years, and he and Lucius got on well. If only he'd allowed himself to be surgically altered like the Goodmans and Marshal, she wouldn't have to worry about his glamour charm wearing off, or someone recognizing his voice. Well, it was what it was, and he was here. Her lips curled into a mocking smile; Nott was a very handsome wizard, yet the disguise he always chose was of an average, blond, ho-hum man with pale blue eyes. On the plus side, he looked nothing like his true self.

_Quiet_ had been Narcissa's desire; it was hardly the word to describe how the event had turned out, though at least it still consisted only of those she'd invited. A tiny smirk flitted over her countenance. If any undesirables crashed the ball, there were plenty of men here who'd relish the chance to throw them out on their arses, with perhaps a curse or two to make sure they stayed out.

"Lucius, have you seen the children?" she asked.

Her husband instinctively glanced about him. "Aren't they with Draco?"

"They were," she said. With a slight thrust of her chin, she indicated the dance floor, where Draco was curled round Astoria, swaying to a waltz.

"He's not even keeping time," observed his father, frowning. Probably too busy thinking about Astoria's 'goodies'. He couldn't rightfully impugn the kid, he'd done the same with Narcissa at that age…and even now, if he were to be totally honest.

"No, he's _making time,_" Narcissa snapped back. She'd find out what was what, and if Draco didn't have a good explanation for where the babies were, he'd better hope she couldn't find Lucius' cane!

She marched right up to the couple and tapped her son on the shoulder. He gave a little shrug and mumbled, "I'm not changing partners."

"Perhaps you ought to be changing nappies," Narcissa retorted, and her son's eyes flew open.

"Mother, sorry." He stood up and adjusted his velvety soft robes.

"I thought you'd agreed to watch your siblings during the party," Narcissa said.

"I did—I am—I mean, I was." He gulped. Rarely had he seen that dagger-eyed look coming from this witch. From Father, yes, it was fairly standard fare, but not from her. Somehow, as scary as it was coming from his sire, it chilled him coming from his mother.

She crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her foot. Oh, how he hated it when she did that! "It's funny, son, but I can't seem to see them. Are they in bed? Or maybe they're hiding in your pocket?"

"I left them with Jacinta and Theo," he said softly. "I didn't think you'd mind."

"I—" she began when the music cut off abruptly, the song ended. Lowering her voice, she said in a warning tone, "It's fine. Next time, you let me know what's going on. I was worried."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, flushing to be scolded in front of Astoria.

Narcissa strode off, leaving the couple alone. Astoria said quietly, "You probably should have told her. You know how protective she is of her kids."

"I _am_ one of her kids, you know," he replied, pulling her back into his arms. He wasn't upset, he didn't blame his mother. After all the trouble this family had gone through, all the frights and fears, she had every right to be extra cautious and overprotective. "Let's have a good time. I've missed you so much, I can't bear to let you go."

Lucius monitored the situation with Draco, on the off chance Narcissa might fly into a frenzy. It had been known to happen with _him_ on occasion, if not to their son. Then he saw his wife calmly going the opposite way, to the room they'd left the cribs set up in for their own children and for Severus'.

Satisfied that there were not going to be fireworks indoors and that all was well, he turned around, coming nose to nose with his sister-in-law, dressed in a bright red, strapless party dress that hugged her slight figure and brought out a hint of curves. His first impulse, born of years of habit, was to recoil at almost touching a muggle-lover, but to his credit he maintained his composure and offered a light smile. Extending his hand, he lifted Andromeda's fingers to his lips for a brief kiss, his smile broadening and becoming genuine at her dismay.

"Lucius, what's got into you?" she laughed.

"Nothing, Andromeda," he murmured with a gesture to his left, where several couples were attempting to reproduce the difficult steps of an archaic dance. His grey eyes twinkled. "Would you care to accompany me? Show the youngsters how it's done?"

"I—alright," she said, looking confused and pleased at once. She took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, where they proceeded to show off the effortless footwork that countless hours of lessons in their pureblood youth had produced.

"I'm glad you were able to come," he said in a low voice near her ear, not that he could have been overheard with the sound of the live band all around. "Christmas is a time for forgiveness, is it not?"

"I guess," she answered, her quizzical expression returning. He flipped her over his arm for a dip, and she gracefully complied before rising to whirl smoothly across the floor with him. "Do you have something on your mind, Lucius?"

Another twenty seconds or so passed in silence while they moved to the music and he gazed past her shoulder into nothingness, before he finally admitted, "Yes. I wish to apologize for all those years, the way I treated you….your family." He couldn't bring himself to say the mud—muggleborn's name or to mention Nymphadora, his niece that he'd never gotten to know. "I have no excuse, none that would hold water, at any rate."

Shocked at the frank and unexpected confession, as well as his refusal to try to justify his actions, Andromeda merely glided along with him, unable to think clearly. Her mind leapt from one point to another, alighting like a hummingbird on a flower, then flitting on to the next. Although she'd been two years ahead of Lucius, the two had been friends in school—not best friends, but there had been a camaraderie, a sense of fun and enthusiasm she missed. They'd shared a lot of enjoyable times before she found Ted Tonks; at this moment, Lucius reminded her of who he'd been in those days, before Death Eater lore had gotten to him.

The simple act of referring to her family saddened her; simultaneously, Malfoy's radical departure from his dark past cheered her, and the dichotomy made her feel as if she'd been split down the middle. In the last couple of years Lucius had made an effort to be kind to her, she'd not failed to notice it. At the same time, she experienced a resurgence of righteous indignation and resentment over the snubs he'd thrown her way for many years prior. Nevertheless, she'd honestly never anticipated an outright admission of guilt; she didn't quite know what to say or how to feel.

"How is Teddy?" he asked, breaking the tense silence.

"He's good, thank you. Harry is babysitting him."

Another final swirl and the dance ended. Amid the polite applause of the watching crowd, he led her to one of the small tables lining the ballroom. He poured a glass of champagne for her and one for himself. Forcing himself to look her in the eye, he said solemnly, "I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I hope you understand I am sincere in my regret. May we toast to the future, to the best for all of us."

He lifted his goblet to take a drink. Andy prevented him with a hand on his arm, dragging it down. She'd known Lucius when he was a boy and a teenager; as a man, he'd drifted so far off she hadn't wanted to know him any longer. Now he'd changed…again. Had holding grudges ever culminated in anything good? Maybe it was time to let it go, to move on. "I will toast to the future, to the best for all of us—and the best_ in_ all of us. I forgive you, Lucius."

The wizard's lips pinched tight and he nodded once. A single spot of wetness glistened in the corner of his eye, and he hurriedly averted his head to avoid allowing it to be seen. Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, he croaked, "Thank you, Andy. I believe I saw my dear wife waving to you." When Andromeda turned her head, Lucius wiped the pesky tear away. "My mistake."

In the room down the corridor, Narcissa set Khala next to her brother and stroked Ladon's hair back from his darling face as the sleepy child lay in the crib. Poor thing was exhausted. Two days ago Draco had come home, and the lad had spent almost the entire time clinging to his brother like a burr, even insisting on sleeping in Draco's bed—to the young man's vocal protest. Ladon had won out, of course, when his tantrum had produced a flash of unfocused magic that singed the tips of Draco's hair. He'd then made a snide remark about Brax being worse than the dragons he worked with. From what she could gather, neither of them had experienced a good night's rest. She'd expected Ladon to reenergize for the party, but evidently he'd been too overwrought.

"Thank you two for taking care of the children," she said to Theo and Jacinta, each of them holding one of the Snape twins.

"It's no problem," Jacinta said.

Theo grunted something under his breath that Narcissa didn't hear. After she'd left the room, he said, "And refresh my memory: why am I here taking care of a troop of brats?"

"Because two of them are my brothers, and I told Papa I'd watch them," Jacinta snapped. "And since when are my brothers brats?" She barely restrained herself from vocally noting that Missy was by far more of a brat than Aidan or Adriel could ever be…only Theo would probably agree with her.

"I thought we were here to have a good time at a party, not do babysitting," Theo grumped, throwing himself into the rocking chair and patting Aidan on the back to make him burp.

"If you don't like it, leave."

Theo glowered at her, yet made no motion to go. He'd committed himself to this task when he told Jacinta he'd help, and again when he'd allowed Draco to dump off the Malfoy kids on them as well. Another pat and Aidan burped noisily, then promptly threw up on Theo's shoulder. He groaned loudly. Jacinta plucked Aidan from him, laughing, and he wanted to be angry but—well, it was kind of funny. He joined in her merriment as he _scourgified_ his robes.

"Hey, little guy, let's get you washed up so you can go to sleep and let your almost brother-in-law snog your sister."

Aidan kicked his legs and gurgled a reply, "Tse pa daba."

"Yeah, right," Theo said, grinning. He carried the boy to the loo across the hall, wet a clean cloth, and washed the baby's mouth and hands. When he returned, Jacinta had already lain Adriel in the crib he shared with his twin. Carefully he lowered Aidan in as well. "Now behave so I can spend time with Cinta. You'll understand when you get older."

The baby responded by rolling onto his side to face his brother, where he began to chatter excitedly in gibberish. Adriel answered in kind, thrashing his limbs and laughing at their conversation. Jacinta took Theo's hand to lead him to the bed, which had been shoved in the corner. Together they sat on the edge, facing the children.

"Seems weird to snog in front of them," she said.

"Why? They're too young to know or care. And the Malfoy kids have surely seen their parents going at it—not like _that_!" he finished, laughing. "Dirty mind."

"Takes one to know one," she shot back, kissing the tip of his nose.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

On the far side of the ballroom, a small group were gathered discussing the finer points of the muggle court system, or lack thereof. "I'm only saying that muggle justice is a joke. I've just told you about some of their cases," Marshal insisted. He downed what remained of his wine, only to find Cinchona refilling his glass immediately. He nodded in appreciation; Lucius sure did have well-trained elves.

"It's not exactly perfect with wizards, either," Jorab said. The subtle look he shot the other man was rife with implication, such as 'We're testaments to that fact' and 'We're not in prison, are we?'. As he ought to have expected, it seemed to go over Marshal's head entirely. He gave a disgusted shake of his head. "Look at that blood traitor Black. He got arrested and spent years in Azkaban without even a trial."

"I suppose that makes my case for me," Marshal said. "Why don't they use Veritaserum as a matter of course? Muggles, too."

"Muggles don't have Veritaserum," Aline responded. "But they do have a variation of it, and I don't really know why they don't utilize it. They can't overcome its effects like some wizards can." She glanced at Severus, who merely sidled closer and put his arm round her waist. He never talked about his life as a Death Eater in public.

"I suspect those in positions of authority aren't always interested in guilt or innocence; they're more concerned with how their own status will be affected," Severus drawled. Having worked for two megalomaniacs, he'd seen enough of it on both sides of the law to know whereof he spoke.

"Which may explain why the CPS does a shit job of prosecuting," Marshal concluded.

Aline wrinkled her brow. "Child Protective Services? What does that have to do with prosecuting cases?"

Severus leaned down to murmur in her ear, "Crown Prosecution Service, dear."

"Oh." Her face flushed. In America, those letter had a different connotation altogether. "Never mind."

"Liv, you look bored to tears. This is hardly the topic for a happy soiree. Would you like to dance?" asked Jorab. Without waiting for her reply, he nodded to those in the huddle and led her in the direction of the dance floor.

"Apparently the conversation is over. Aline, would you mind?" asked Severus, holding out a hand for her. She grinned, clasped his hand in hers, and the two headed out as well.

"See you, Marshal," she said, waving.

"Yeah, later," he agreed.

Marshal swilled the liquid in his glass, and nearly choked on the burning firewhiskey. Coughing and spitting, he wheezed several times, his eyes watering. Damned elf, he was supposed to have wine! Ah, well, either one worked to give him a buzz. His eyes trailed the Snapes briefly, then scanned the crowd. At a table not far off, he noted Dolph sitting with Bayly and his little wife…Gloria, that was her name. Why did he have such a hard time remembering that? Maybe because Bayly had made it plain he didn't want the wizard near her? Geez, all he'd done was insult the kid a little for fun, you'd think he'd committed a heinous crime—against her, that is. He held the gaze for several seconds, observing Dolph, whose line of sight aimed precisely at Aline Conn Snape and tracked her to the dance floor. She did look pretty fit in that forest green silk dress that accentuated all the right places.

"Who'd have thought?" said a voice to his right and behind.

Marshal whirled, wand in hand, and froze at his friend standing inches away, staring at Dolph as well. "Sorry." He replaced his wand in its pocket. "Thought what?"

"Dolph fancies Snape's wife," said Nott with a barely discernable tilt of his head in Dolph's direction. "I noticed it a long time ago, but I thought he'd got over it."

Marshal shrugged. It wasn't as though Dolph would ever try anything with Aline—not if he were sober, anyway, and not if he wanted to live to see the next day. He grinned to himself. Aline was no shrinking violet; if she didn't hex his balls off, Snape would, and then he'd torture him to death. It might be something to watch, if he didn't consider Dolph a friend. That was just wrong.

"He'll get over it, I imagine," said Marshal at last. "He got over Bella, didn't he?"

Nott let out a light snort. "Never understood what he saw in Bella to begin with. And she's nothing like Aline."

"Except in dueling. Aline kicks arse there," Marshal replied. He admired that. He slid into one of the seats nearby. "I didn't see your kids here—well, I saw Theo with Jacinta, and Missy running around somewhere in here. Not the younger boys."

"They come home in two days," said Nott, taking the seat beside him. "Beauxbatons keeps them longer than Hogwarts, but they're learning a lot. Good thing Fidelia went to school there and speaks French, or who knows what they'd be saying behind my back." He laughed, yet there was a melancholy behind the merriment.

"I wouldn't worry about it," said Marshal. It wasn't so much that he didn't care if Nott's children insulted him behind his back, which he really didn't; it was more that he knew they _wouldn't_. Nott was a good father, his kids loved him. He was lucky in many ways, even if he couldn't show his true face in public.

Jack Mulciber came wandering up, drink in hand. "Looks like Narcissa and Fidelia are planning to sing. Aren't you gonna come?"

"I wouldn't miss it," said Nott, springing from his chair. He adored his wife, including her lovely singing ability. He'd have to pretend she wasn't his wife here, in front of everyone, but he could still listen. Besides, Lucius and Narcissa had been telling people he and Fidelia were dating now that she'd come to terms with her husband's 'death'. It made him feel a little weird, but at least he got to be with her. If only he didn't have to use this stupid glamour charm!

He elbowed his way through the crowd with Jack to the front of the ballroom where a concert grand Steinway had been set center stage. Narcissa and Lucius were at the keyboard ogling each other in that way that made some uncomfortable, but not Nott; he and Fidelia had the same effect on people at times. Frankly, he thought Lucius and Narcissa were sweet together. How many marriages could survive the hell they'd been through with Voldemort living right there in their house? Torturing their son and Lucius…

For some reason he'd expected the Malfoys to break into a classical rendition of Beethoven, and when strains of "O, Holy Night" met his ears, a snorting laugh escaped him. Jack, who now had Glenna beside him, knocked him in the ribs to shut him up, though it wasn't strictly necessary. Fidelia's piercing gaze caught him, and she began to sing. Everything else fell away, there existed only himself and that lovely witch.

"I didn't know you could sing like that," said an obviously stunned Glenna amid the applause when the song ended. Applause not only for his wife, but for him!

Nott looked at Glenna, panic rising in his chest. He'd done it again, without even thinking! He couldn't afford to be careless, to let himself get swept away in Fidelia's eyes when he was in public, to draw attention to himself! "Uh…thanks."

He turn to bolt through the onlookers, but Jack held him fast, hissing in his ear, "Stay here, dumbass! You're in disguise. It's okay."

Yes, he'd momentarily forgotten. A disapproving glare from Lucius found its way to him, not unexpectedly. He'd likely get an earful later about laying low. Fidelia stepped to the front of the crowd and took his hand, smiling. God, how he loved that smile.

"You're all very gracious, but I think I'd like to spend some time with my man friend," Fidelia said, to the titters of several in the group. "Narcissa, you and Lucius can entertain."

"With a little help from their rugrat," said Theo, bursting forth holding Khala. He placed the tiny girl on the piano, standing up, his hands encircling her form till she got her balance. "You've got to see this."

"Mama! Fa'er!" she squealed. "I dance."

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged glances, as much in sheer curiosity as in wondering why their barely-one-year-old daughter wasn't asleep at this hour, and as one set to "Deck the Halls". Khala at first did nothing except stare round at the people, then she began to bob up and down, her stubby legs bending at the knees, her hands clenched in fists at her waist. A second later she added swaying, her head flopping left and right to the beat of the music.

"Look, darling, she dances like you," smirked Lucius, never missing a note.

"Clever, Lucius, oh so clever," responded Narcissa dryly, though she was heartily amused by the scene.

As Aline exited the loo, she spied Regulus near the ballroom door, leaning there with a tall drink in his hand, and her heart sank. He'd been doing so well. Severus and Lucius would both tear him a new one if they saw this! "Hey, Reg. How's it going?"

"Okay," he answered, his habitual grin spread over his handsome face. "Looking wickedly sexy there, Aline." He winked.

"I know you're only saying that because of the alcohol," she whispered, glancing about furtively. "What are you doing?"

His smile widened. "I'm not drinking. Wanna test it yourself? Just apple juice." He held it out, and she did indeed approach to sniff it.

"Why are you out here, then?"

Reg shrugged. "Kind of bored. I never really liked parties unless I was hammered. Since you all will kill me if I slip up, that's not an option now."

"We won't kill you," she said, relieved. "Would you like to dance?"

"Sure. I may as well put to use those lessons my parents insisted on giving me." He extended a hand and bowed. "If I may?"

Aline laid her hand in his and the two entered the ballroom. Finding a good spot on the floor, they started a complicated step to the fast, happy tune Lucius and Narcissa were playing. Reg pulled her in tight and whirled her faster and faster until she felt the room spinning, and they nearly collapsed on the floor laughing.

"I like being dizzy—it's like being drunk," he said, and she wasn't entirely sure he was joking. They staggered to the side of the room, out of the way. "I notice Cissy didn't invite my dear brother."

"Did you expect her to?" asked Aline. "Lucius hates him."

"Can't blame him," muttered Reg, dropping into one of the chairs.

For a long moment Aline didn't respond. Everyone knew by now about the fiasco in Bulgaria, and it was not surprising Regulus should be upset over it—but almost no one knew what she'd just discovered on the dance floor when she'd held his hand, when a vision had overtaken her and she'd almost fallen. Reg had thought it was from dizziness, and she'd let him think it. Now he seemed to want to talk…she didn't like getting flashes from people this way, it made them uncomfortable, made them afraid to be near her lest she uncover their deep, dark secrets.

"Severus often bemoans the fact that Sirius is a massive jerk," she began, placing her hand on his right before deciding that probably wasn't a good idea if she was trying _not_ to get flashes. "He says it in more colorful language, but that's the gist of it. He meant to tell you 'good job' on beating up Sirius."

Reg laughed lightly. "Thanks."

She paused, considering, then said, "As for myself, I'm sorry you're unhappy. It hurts to be estranged from loved ones. I believe Sirius will come around. He loves you, despite everything."

"So they say," Reg mumbled.

"Why don't you come over with us? Severus misses you."

"Yeah, okay." A shy smile had taken the place of his playful one. "I'm really glad you're my friend, Aline. I feel like I can talk to you more than to Snape or Nott or Lucius. Is that odd?"

"No, I don't think so…then again, many people think I'm weird," she said, shrugging. "I guess women are just better at listening instead of trying to fix your problems."

"Whatever it is, thanks. And lead the way."


	56. Rockin' Around the Death Eater Tree

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 56 (Rockin' Around the Death Eater Tree)

**December 21, 2000**

The children had finally gone home on the Hogwarts Express, and the teachers of Hogwarts heaved a sigh of relief. Already several had gone off on holiday, leaving a skeleton crew to mind those unfortunate few left at school—not to say all of those professors currently remaining were staying, but that semester business had to be wrapped up rather than holding it over till the new term. Bayly fell squarely into this bracket. He planned to give the lab a thorough cleaning, finish up the grades, and get home to his wife.

He hadn't expected to be detained by a visitor, especially one wholly unrelated to school affairs. He looked up as Minerva entered the Potions lab. "Professor, what is it?"

"This gentleman is here to see you." She motioned over her shoulder, where the top of a head was visible beyond her bun. "Mr. Goodman says he is family." Her eyebrows had moved up so far they were almost to her hairline. The pitch of her voice expressed firm disbelief, but that she'd like to hear it from Bayly himself before throwing the man out on his arse.

"Jorab," said Bayly as the man moved into view. Startled and a bit befuddled, he mumbled, "He's dating my mum." He certainly wasn't going to perjure himself by proclaiming kinship.

Minerva whirled on the wizard in the hall, squinting behind her square lenses. "Not quite related, I'd say. You look very familiar, Mr. Goodman."

"I came to visit Severus Snape a few years back—my brother and I," Rab explained. Why was it every time he got near this witch he felt like a sixteen-year-old boy about to be scolded? It wasn't bad enough she checked him for glamour charms as he entered, now she was questioning his identity?

"Ah, yes, I remember." She eased back, her muscles losing their pouncing tension. Severus told her they'd helped find the book that Lucius Malfoy had used to go through the Veil and come back out again, alive—with Narcissa and the Black brothers. "Bayly, if you're busy, I'm sure Mr. Goodman can meet you another time."

"No, it's fine," said Bayly. He waved the man in and smiled to Minerva. She nodded and walked out, giving the other fellow a sharp gaze that clearly said she would not be deceived. If only she knew how deceived she already was by this former Death Eater!

Rab came in, laid his heavy cloak on a lab table, and seated himself on one of the stools; the young man sat opposite him. Growing suddenly nervous, Bayly asked, "Is Mum okay?"

"Yes, she's perfectly well," Rab said. "I guess I ought to get to the point and let you get back to work. On Christmas Eve I'm planning to ask your mother to marry me."

Stunned silence. Bayly merely stared, not knowing what to say. Mum and Jorab had only been together about four months, maybe five. Then again, he'd loved Gloria after knowing her a very short time. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen this coming. At last he said, "Are you asking my permission?"

Rabby snorted involuntarily, mentally kicking himself for it. He'd not come to antagonize the kid, and now that they'd developed a satisfactory relationship, he didn't want to imperil it. "No. I'm asking for your blessing. For myself, I can do without it, but your mother—you know how she is."

"So you basically don't give a rat's arse what I think, is that it?"

"No, that's not it," Jorab backpedaled. He took in a deep breath, held it, and let it go. "It's…weird. If she accepts my proposal, I'll be your stepfather. Believe me, that notion freaks me out as much as it does you."

Bayly shook his head in astonishment. Could this sad sack be any more offensive? "So it freaks you out to consider being part of my family. What the hell did you come here for, Jorab? If Mum marries you, I can't stop her, but I will not be treated like a pariah in my own mother's house!"

"F—k," said Jorab, jerking up from his seat to pace the floor. He ran his hands through his cropped hair. Nothing was coming out the way he'd intended. "I suck at this, alright. I came to have a civil discussion, not to insult you or piss you off. I was thinking about your dad, Dolohov, and how I don't want you comparing me to him."

"I don't see any reason I would," Bayly replied calmly.

"And I don't know how to be a father, I never had any kids," Rab went on, sounding slightly hysterical. "I don't wanna be like mine or yours. How am I supposed to act?"

Now it made a whole lot more sense. Bayly gave a droll smile. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not a kid. I'm nineteen and married. I don't expect you to play the part of a dad." _Severus Snape is my dad._

Was that a touch of relief on Rabby's face? "So we'd be what? Friends?"

"I hope so," Bayly answered earnestly. "Any fool can see Mum loves you. Do you feel the same about her?"

"I would kill or die for her," responded the other without a moment's hesitation.

"That's all I need to know to give you my blessing," said Bayly, offering his hand. "Good luck." As if he'd need it; Mum would be ecstatic come Christmas Eve. He almost wished he could be there to see it, but no—it was private. Jorab deserved that, and so did Mum.

"Thank you." Jorab shook his hand and took his leave, almost bumping into a young wizard coming into the lab. "Sorry, mate." That face, why did he know it? Holy hell, that was one of the brats who'd come to the Department of Mysteries in the failed attempt to get that godforsaken prophecy! It was the one Bella had tormented, Longbottom! The one whose parents he'd helped torture into insanity.

Rab slid past him and hurried down the corridor, his stomach in knots. If Bayly knew who he'd been in that other life, he'd never in a million years let him near Livonia. And Rab wouldn't blame him. Why couldn't the mediwitches and mediwizards fix the Longbottoms? Surely after all these years they'd developed some new therapies, or new medicines. He should talk to Snape about it; he'd invented several of his own potions and spells—and Aline had done so, too, for her mother and for Narcissa. If he or Aline couldn't come up with a cure, it truly was hopeless. And that thought made him want to vomit.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**December 25, 2000**

A wickedly sharp 'pop' sounded in Spinner's End, loud enough to attract the attention of anyone present—assuming they were awake. Kreacher appeared, his wrinkled hand clutching onto Sirius' pantleg. He couldn't bring himself to hold onto his detested master's hand, nor should the wretched human wish him to. Kreacher glanced around hopefully, his orb-like eyes scanning the room, the staircase, the kitchen door, then his countenance fell as he noted no one rushing in to see what the noise was about.

Sirius aimed his face at the elf and shook his head in warning; he'd ordered Kreacher to keep silent, and silent he must stay. That didn't mean he had to like it. The house elf scowled hatefully and shuffled to the sofa, where he hopped up and sat there with his limbs straight and stiff. Sirius lit the tip of his wand with a dim _lumos_, barely enough to navigate the room without stumbling.

In the far corner of the living room, on a low table, Regulus had set up a tabletop Christmas tree decorated with blue and violet bows and bright miniature ornaments—round bulbs, tiny wooden sleds, lifelike cardinals. Now that he'd gotten close enough, Sirius saw that the tree had muggle lights wound about, with a cord to plug into the wall. Tempted to see what it looked like lit up, he nevertheless bypassed it as he withdrew a wrapped, four-inch box from his pocket. He stared at the box for a long minute before sliding it under the tree. It pained him to note it was the only present there.

"Merry Christmas, brother," he whispered. He turned and made a gesture to Kreacher, who heaved a put-out breath before slowly crawling off the sofa and tottering back to his master, then gripped his trousers so tightly it twisted against Sirius' skin, and disapparated.

A couple of hours later daylight peeked in the windows of Spinner's End, though it wasn't till much later Regulus woke and stretched. As he did every day, he got up and headed downstairs to the only loo in the place, then made for the kitchen for some coffee. If he knew Kreacher, the elf had left him some goodies for a holiday breakfast. Sure enough, on a platter on the counter were stacked a variety of sweet treats and festive breads. A single plate set on the table, covered with a large metal top to hold in the heat, for the heating charm had long since been cast. Reg lifted the cover and smiled: scrambled eggs and bacon, buttered toast, fried potatoes, all steaming hot.

"Thank you, Kreacher."

After breakfast, he wandered into the living room and plopped in front of the telly; he got up and went to the tree, plugged it in, then grinned again. It sure was pretty, and all his. That was strange. He picked up the obviously hand-wrapped package left by Sirius and turned it over in his hands. No name…unless you counted the tag claiming to come from Father Christmas. He wasn't quite gullible enough to fall for that. Since no one except Severus (and his blood relatives) or Lucius had unhindered access by floo, and the doors were warded, it had to be from one of them. Or Kreacher…but house elves didn't give gifts to their masters.

Furrowing his brow, he ripped off the paper, letting it drop to the floor. Cautiously he opened the box, and his heart skipped a beat. Inside lay an old, worn, toy muggle car with chipped yellow paint and a broken passenger door that hung perpetually in the 'open' position. He fingered the metal object pensively. How long had it been since he'd seen it?

_It had been July of 1968, he remembered, because he'd been seven. He'd sneaked into Sirius' room to watch out the window, as he sometimes did. Sirius often yelled at him to stay out, but Sirius wasn't here, and he wanted to look. His own bedroom faced the back garden, not much to see, but Sirius' __tall window faced the street where muggles went by all day long. Today, a small group of boys and a girl were playing in the street with miniature objects he couldn't see from the house. He felt the urge to hide himself behind the velvet curtains, then recalled that he didn't need to worry that they'd look up and see him, for Mum and Dad had told him that no one could see inside unless they were normal folk (witches or wizards)._

_ When they'd left, Regulus noticed a spot of yellow where they'd been playing. Excited, he ran out of the room and down the stairs, slowing himself to a forced walk by the time he'd reached the front door. His parents might not like him investigating muggle affairs. He casually sauntered out, closed the door, then raced to the curb and picked up the toy. A car. He knew that because he'd seen actual, real muggle cars going by many times. He wondered if it could roll on its own, but when he set it down and waited, nothing happened. He gave it a push and it rolled a short distance before coming to a stop. Unenchanted didn't mean it couldn't be fun._

_ With his heart pounding in his chest so __fiercely he feared everyone must be able to hear it, he slipped the toy into his pocket and strolled back into the house. He was doing something very bad, something forbidden, and it scared him…and empowered him. So this was how Sirius felt when he disobeyed and got their parents angry. _

_ "Regulus, where were you?" came his mother's shrill voice. She emerged from the parlor, eyes locked on him._

_ "Just outside for a minute," he answered weakly, his hand instinctively curling round the car in his pocket._

_ "How many times have I told you not to go out there without permission?" she continued, coming closer as his breathing grew shallow. "Those filthy muggles might steal you away and eat you! They're savages, son."_

_ "Sorry, Mum," he whispered in a near whimper. If she kept it up he'd tattle on himself, he knew it. Why did they even live here if it was so dangerous? And those kids didn't look like they meant to eat anyone._

_ As quickly as that the witch turned her back to return to the parlor. "Next time I'll inform your father and see wha__t he thinks of you skulking in the street with the rubbish." She may as well have said Dad would tan his hide, for that was certainly what he'd threatened more than once._

_ "I'll be good, Mum, I promise." When the woman made no reply, he hurried up the stairs to his room and shut the door behind him. Almost reverently he withdrew the toy from his pocket and set it on the floor, giving it another light push. It creaked across the wooden slats, making his heart leap again. He had a secret!_

_ The secret hadn't lasted long. Two weeks later Sirius had come barging into his room as if he owned the place—which Reg__ulus had thought blatantly hypocritical, considering how obnoxious he was about his own privacy—and caught his brother playing with the forbidden item. Sirius had merely stopped and gaped at first, then he slammed the door and stomped over. Regulus cowered against his bed, clutching the car to his chest._

_ "Where'd you get that?"_

_ "I found it." _

_ Sirius held out his hand, waiting. "Give it to me."_

_ "No." Reg's fingers hurt from how hard he gripped the toy. "It's mine."_

_ "If Mum and Dad catch you with it, you'll get a belting," Sirius warned, and Regulus wondered if he intended to tell on him. "Reg, I'm not trying to steal it, I'm trying to protect you!"_

_ Reg hesitated. It was true, he'd be in big trouble if caught. But he liked this toy, it was fun. "You'll get rid of it," he said softly._

_ Sirius glanced behind him. "No. I'll keep it for you in my hiding place."_

_ "What hiding place?"_

_ Beckoning his brother to follow, Sirius poked his head out the door, then scampered across the hall to his own room. Reg followed and shut the door, curious. The older boy rounded the bed and then gave it a hard shove that scraped it across the floor only a few inches. Beneath the frame, Reg saw a wooden slat that bore more marks and scratches than the rest in the room; sure enough, Sirius pried it up with the edge of a butter knife to reveal a neat little hiding spot already occupied by a muggle snapshot of some kind and a few odds and ends that made no sense to Regulus._

_ Sirius looked up at him and smiled. "If you put it here, they won't find it."_

_ "And if they do?" asked Reg skeptically._

_ "They'll think it's mine," answered Sirius with a shrug. "You're my brother. We gotta stick together, yeah?"_

After zooming the car back and forth between themselves for another hour, Reg had put his toy in the hiding spot, and often over the next years he'd retrieved it to amuse himself, always cognizant of the fact that Sirius was sticking his neck out. If Mum and Dad had discovered the car, they'd have punished Sirius for it, not Regulus.

He'd forgotten how close they'd been as boys, despite their arguments, despite Sirius' irksome need to be the center of attention. Sirius had been willing to risk a beating in order that his little brother be allowed to have a secret toy…that had to count for something, right? Maybe he had done it only to get over on their parents; he'd liked doing that. Yet he'd had ample opportunity for pissing them off without involving Regulus. Had Sirius really changed so much from that person he used to be, the one who protected his brother? Yes, he'd been a shithead on many levels, but at his core he was still Sirius…wasn't he? Was this Christmas gift meant to be a reminder of the time in their lives when they'd been a team instead of attacking each other?

"Damn it," Reg murmured into the quiet air. He'd go over to Grimmauld Place later and find out what the deal was. For now, he'd rather relax until he had to get ready for dinner at the Malfoys. Snape and his family were coming, too. He'd better prepare the gifts he'd purchased and failed to wrap for the lot of them. Then again, wasn't that what elves were for? "Kreacher!"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"And I'm sure Severus has told you that Lucius never liked parties," Narcissa was saying to Aline in the parlor off the main sitting area, where the group had retired after dinner.

"I believe the term is _loathe_, darling," Lucius corrected her gently. Not that it had ever stopped his father from requiring his presence, nor his wife from forcing him into 'festive mode' every year. Still, it must have made an impact, or he was simply mellowing; he didn't despise them nearly as much as he used to.

"Have you heard of my first Christmas ball?" asked Draco, smirking at his sire. "I don't remember it, but I've heard about it quite a lot over the years."

"Do tell, Lucius," prompted Severus, smirking right along with his godson, enjoying seeing his friend squirm.

The Malfoy patriarch glowered at them both, then set to the tale:

_They were everywhere Lucius looked. Nott and his wife had brought their infant son; Goyle was standing across the room drinking firewhiskey with Crabbe while holding his baby son as his three-year-old daughter played between his legs. The Zabinis had a couple of children as well…and the Patils with their twin girls._

_ "I swear to God, if the Weasleys show up—with or without their horde—I'll __avada__ kedavra__ myself in the head," Lucius muttered to no one._

_He'd wandered off alone to get a drink and take a break from the pretense of enjoying himself when he saw it. No, it couldn't be! Just when he thought this soiree couldn't get any worse, he glanced across the room at his lovely, sensual wife in her long, slinky red gown. She was carrying Draco, who was dressed in a miniature suit of dress robes and wearing a—a muggle version of an __elf hat__ on his head?_

_ He practically flew over to her and yanked the silly hat from his son's head. "Narcissa, what are you doing?"_

_ She snatched it back from him. "Do you mind?"_

_ "Of course I mind, that's why I took that ridiculous thing off him," Lucius retorted. "He's not a court jester."_

_ "He looks adorable," Narcissa countered, arranging the pointed stocking cap on her son._

_ "Why is he even down here? He should be in bed."_

_ Narcissa sniffed, pointing with her chin at the children scattered throughout. "If they can bring theirs, I certainly can bring mine. I'm proud of Draco, he's so much cuter and smarter than the rest."_

_ "Naturally he is, he's a Malfoy," Lucius readily agreed, as if it were so obvious it didn't require stating at all. "That's not the point. Why are all these kids here? Didn't you specify on the invitations this was an 'adult only' party? Or am I the only one who got that memo?"_

_ Narcissa pursed her lips guiltily and looked heavenward. "I may have forgotten to mention the adult only part."_

_ Forgot? Or wanted an opportunity to show off Draco? He could hardly be angry when her motives were so admirable. Draco deserved to be shown off. Nonetheless, it brought a bunch of snot-nosed rugrats into his home. He grumbled, "Lovely. In an hour we'll have a slew of cranky brats squalling around—"_

_ "Lucius, it isn't proper manners to insult your guests," said Abraxas from behind him. He came around to take Draco from Narcissa. "I've already instructed Sisidy to set up a nursery so she can watch the children when they fall asleep. Dobby will still be available if we need anything."_

_ "Well I simply don't see how this 'oversight' happened," Lucius commented. He knew he ought to let it go, he couldn't very well send them all home. He found his eyes resting on Goyle's baby son, a square headed bruiser like his father. _

_ He watched in amusement as Abraxas hauled Draco over to talk with Goyle and his father—three generations of the burly bunch all in one place. Draco peered keenly over Abraxas' shoulder at the other baby and babbled something imperiously; Gregory Goyle's expression became more dull-witted, if possible, then he extended his hand with the rattle he was holding. Draco smirked and took the toy._

_ "That's my boy," drawled Lucius smugly._

_ "That's my godson," Severus corrected him with a grin from behind him. "He knows how to get what he wants, like his father. I didn't realize you enjoyed children's parties so much."  
_

_Lucius gave him a withering glare. "That's Narcissa's doing," he lamented, leading him to a quieter spot near a far entrance of the ballroom. "What have you been up to?"_

_ Snape heaved a sigh, his whole body slumping. "The master has ordered me to apply for the teaching post at Hogwarts again. I shouldn't have told him I heard the position was opening up."_

_ In spite of himself Lucius had to laugh. Snape, who despised children on the whole, was poised to become a teacher! Wasn't life cruel?_

_ "It's not funny."_

_ "Sure it is, in an ironic kind of way," Lucius chuckled._

_ "How would you like to deal with a bunch of nitwits day in and day out? And I can't even quit or kill them," Severus grumbled snarkily._

_ Lucius had to say he'd abhor being ordered into that position, and trying to be supportive he said, "Well, there's always hope. Maybe you won't get the job."_

_ Severus gazed back with a world-weary, glassy eyed stare. "You call that hope? The dark lord spent the better part of our conversation torturing me so I'd know what to expect more of if I fail. I think it would behoove me to try my best."_

_ "Yes, I suppose in the scheme of things that would be prudent." Lucius drifted off, his countenance registering revulsion and horror. Instinctively and very quickly he backed into the doorway and out into the hallway with Severus in pursuit._

_ Snape glanced over his shoulder for the cause of his friend's distress. Surely Lucius wouldn't be leaving if there were a threat to his family! His wand had appeared in his hand as his eyes swept the ballroom. "What is it?"_

_ "Bella!" He spat the name in a hiss resembling Lord Voldemort's tone. "Who invited her?"_

_ "Oh, for crying out loud, Lucius, you're acting like a wuss! I thought something was wrong!" Severus stowed his wand, barely keeping himself from slapping the man._

_ A curl of Lucius' lip greeted him. "So you like her now? Why don't you go talk to her?" With another sneer he gave Severus a vicious shove in the direction of the ballroom, inadvertently missing the doorway and bouncing him off the wall. "Oh, sorry then," he said sheepishly._

_ "Moron," griped Severus, straightening up and rubbing his sore arm. "In case you forgot, this is your party. Shouldn't you be in there?"_

_ "Traitor," sulked Lucius. "Technically, it's the Malfoy party, and my father is there. Are you sure you don't want to go flying or play chess or something?"_

_ Severus merely cocked an eyebrow._

_ Alright, fine, he'd go in to his child-infested, Bella-despoiled gala. It was one night, he could make it through one night, right? Grimacing, Lucius stormed past his friend muttering, "You're turning into my father, you know that?"_

_ "I'll take that as a compliment," said Severus, smirking as he followed him in._

Aline leaned against Severus, laughing. "You two sure had a lot of interesting times together in your youth."

"You've not even heard the best one," Regulus said impishly, looking pointedly at Lucius. "I was dead by then, but from what I gather, it went like this. It all began with an innocent slip-up on the time…"

_Looking strikingly handsome in their new Christ__mas outfits, the Malfoy family apparated into the foyer of the church they attended sporadically—that is, for Christmas, Easter, weddings, and funerals. Draco let out a loud disgruntled wail at the sensation of being squeezed through a pipe, but a gentle jostling in his father's arms soothed him quickly. _

_ "Are we late?" asked Abraxas, appalled at the prospect. Malfoys were never late…well, except Lucius on occasion, but seeing as that generally coincided with Death Eater activity, he chose to ignore it._

_ "The schedule said ten o'clock," Lucius responded much more calmly than he felt. He pointed at the pocket watch in his hand that read three minutes till ten. "It's not my fault Draco poops and pees every hour like clockwork and we have to change him. Blame him."_

_ "He does not! You leave him alone!" Narcissa whispered fiercely, dragging Lucius by the arm toward the body of the church which looked to be quite full._

_ An usher came along to lead them to an open pew. Unfortunately, the only ones not crowded with people were at the very front, causing the Malfoys to practically trot alongside the usher as they traversed the entire length of the church with the congregation looking on. They settled themselves in and glimpsed about._

_ "I don't recognize anyone," Abraxas mentioned quietly with an odd note in his voice._

_ Lucius, under the guise of handing Draco to Narcissa on his other side, gave a cursory look around. He wrinkled his nose. What was with the clothes these people were wearing? Had they no sense of style? "I see the Weasleys and their army over there." He jerked a thumb across the aisle. It seemed more than peculiar that none of their acquaintances were here._

_ The next moment they were bid to stand and sing while the priest proceeded down the aisle. As he got closer, Lucius' stomach lurched. This wasn't the wizard priest who always presided at the services! Being that there were only two wizard priests in all of Britain, it seemed patently absurd to think they'd have moved the other one to this parish._

_ This couldn't be happening, he couldn't have got the time wrong. Okay, he could have, what with the turmoil of a child to throw things off, but it was unlikely. He thought the schedule had read 'wizard mass at 10:00', but what if it had really said 'no wizard mass at 10:00'? Or had it said the wizard mass was at 8:00? He didn't remember, he'd checked it weeks ago…_

_ Narcissa's insistent elbowing in his side was getting a bit annoying. He turned to her with a plastered-on smile. "Yes, dear?"_

_ She leaned in close to his ear and clipped, "That's not our priest."_

_ "Ah, so it isn't," Lucius agreed, facing forward, mind racing. If this wasn't their priest and their acquaintances were conspicuously absent while the muggle-loving Weasleys were here, it could only mean one thing: they were in a muggle service. For a second he had to concentrate on not throwing up. Must not panic, it will upset Narcissa and Father._

_ "Lucius!" hissed Abraxas, looking none too pleased. Apparently he'd figured it out as well. So much for not upsetting him. "I believe you got the wrong time."_

_ "Should we leave?" asked his son._

_ As if in answer, the congregation all sat down, leaving the Malfoys standing. To leave now would be to parade themselves back down the aisle in front of all the vacuous, gawping eyes of a crowd of imbecilic muggles, causing a spectacle. Malfoys did not make spectacles of themselves, it was one of the Rules. As one, they dropped into the pew, utterly mortified. If anyone ever got wind of this, they'd never live it down!_

_ For the next hour they stiffly, self-consciously went through the motions, all the while acutely aware of their horrendous situation. Narcissa hugged Draco so tightly to her he cried out in protest, kicking and squirming to be let down to crawl and drawing more attention upon them. She steadfastly ignored her husband who'd got them into this predicament, as did Abraxas; Lucius was grateful for the latter. Better ignored than smacked for incompetence, though that might be forthcoming when they got home. It was an honest mistake, for crying out loud! It wasn't as if he'd planned this joyous little excursion of being plunked down in the middle of a plethora of drooling muggles!_

_ After the service they waited in their pew for the muggle fold to file out, intending to sneak into the side wing and apparate away lest they be accosted by any of the beasts._

_ Arthur Weasley, who'd noticed with interest the Malfoys—and who hadn't noticed?—came over as his family followed the crowd. "Happy Christmas, Lucius. You, too, Narcissa and Mr. Malfoy."_

_ "Happy Christmas," they all mumbled back. They didn't look happy at all._

_ "I must admit I'm…__surprised__ to see you here," Arthur remarked, hoping for some sort of explanation, though not expecting one, not from the imperious Malfoy clan._

_ "That makes all of us, then," Abraxas announced in a tight lipped snit, with another accusing glance at his son._

_ Lucius forced a smile that looked as forced as it felt. "Nice of you to stop by, Arthur, don't let us keep you."_

_ He gave Narcissa a nudge and she walked to the far end of the pew, followed by Lucius and Abraxas. Together they slipped over into a corner and disapparated, leaving behind nothing but a memory. _

"Then Lucius showed up at my house to regale me with the horrors he'd endured," Severus chuckled, recalling the event fondly. He continued the story where Regulus had left off:

_ "Stop that damned smirking," Lucius growled. He tossed back__ another swig of whiskey. For muggle swill, it tasted surprisingly like firewhiskey._

_ Severus attempted to stop smirking, unsuccessfully. The whole idea of the Malfoys being surrounded by muggles for a full hour with no means of escape was just too delicious. "Sorry, Lucius, but you brought it on yourself. Learn to pay attention. And I see you managed to escape unscathed."_

_ "Humph!" snorted his friend. "Not if you count the humiliating hour-long lecture I got after church. My father was in fine form, let me tell you." Another swallow of whiskey. "Now neither of them is speaking to me."_

_ "They'll get over it, though if you go home drunk I don't foresee anything beneficial in your future," drawled Snape as he capped the bottle and stowed it in the cabinet under the coffee table. _

"_Are you a fortune teller now, Severus? I wouldn't have thought," Lucius snapped._

_ "This is Christmas, Lucius. Stop with the self-pity and try to have a good time."_

_ Right then Eileen came in from the kitchen with a plate of fresh baked cookies and a sliced fruitcake, which she set on the coffee table. "Lucius, have something to eat. In a little while the goose will be done, you're welcome to join us."_

_ "Thank you, Mrs. Snape, it's very kind of you." When she merely stood there waiting expectantly, he picked up a slice of the cake to nibble on and raised his eyebrows. To his amazement, it was actually quite good. He'd have to get the recipe for the house elves._

_ "Mum, can we watch our program?" asked Justina as she and her twin trooped in from their room. Lucius noted with satisfaction that they were wearing the new robes the Malfoys had gifted to them. "Hi, Mr. Malfoy."_

_ "Hello, Tina." Why did her salutation make him feel so old? He was tempted to ask her to call him 'Lucius' when a black box a couple of meters away flickered, brightened, and came to life; suddenly there were people in it—talking and moving! His jaw dropped._

_ "Never seen a telly, huh?" Julius grinned. "He's exactly like Regulus."_

_ "Am not," Lucius replied in what would have been a defensive tone had he not been so distracted and enthralled by this strange new magic…not to mention the effects of the alcohol catching up with him._

_ With his head buzzing from whiskey and a chunk of fruitcake in his hand, he settled back into the sofa to examine this beguiling new object called a 'telly'. Later he'd have Severus teach him this magic. This might turn out to be a great Christmas after all!_

"So, you were like me, eh?" said Regulus, nudging Lucius in the side. "Never got around to getting yourself a telly, though. Did he ever tell you about the time at the Millennium Ball when he made me start a fight with James Potter?"

"Really?" asked Aline, leaning in so far she almost fell off the couch. That didn't sound like something Lucius would do…or did it?

Lucius rolled his eyes. "For one thing, Regulus, that is off topic. For another, I had to get my father off my back—and it's your fault to begin with! You told him Potter was there…anyway, let it suffice to say this Christmas has turned out far better than some of the previous ones."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It wouldn't be Christmas if there were no rum-spiked eggnog, a blinking tree in the middle of the room, and an argument brewing, now would it? Marshal, lounging on the sofa of his flat, levitated the punchbowl onto the coffee table for easier access. He scooped out a large tumblerful and handed it to Dolph, then scooped another for himself. It felt strange not to have Rab here, but he was otherwise engaged with Liv. Marshal smirked at the pun.

"So Rabby tells me you're a vigilante," Dolph observed dispassionately. "I thought we'd all agreed to try going straight."

"No, you both agreed for me," Marshal remarked. "I told you before that I'm doing my part by ridding the world of some of the scum. I'd say that counts."

"Who are you to judge who is scum?" asked the other, lifting an eyebrow.

"Oh, please," scoffed Marshal. "I only knock off ones the court system fails to take care of—you know, serial rapists, child murderers that go free for lack of proper evidence or a misfiled paper or some bullshit. Ex-Death Eater or no, I doubt you'd call them the cream of the crop."

"I'm wondering how you know, really _know_, they're guilty."

"I force them to drink Veritaserum," said Marshal. For Merlin's sake, he wasn't bloody stupid! "And you, of all people, ought to understand the need to rid society of vermin. Don't act all innocent, Dolph, you killed Varden for less!"

Touché. He had killed Varden for molesting his brother, whether his uncle had done the same to anyone else or not. And in theory he wasn't opposed to taking out the trash, so to speak…it was more that Rabby would give him hell if he joined in. Rabby would be disappointed in him, even though he'd no longer be killing innocent people, and he couldn't deal with that.

Well, he had to say something, he couldn't let Marshal get the last word. "It's kind of hypocritical, isn't it, to pretend you've gone straight when you haven't?"

Marshal's lips curled upward in a smile that chilled the other man, who instinctively understood it didn't bode well. To prolong the agony, he took a good, long swill from his glass. "I'm not so sure. Rabby realizes the truth, whether he likes it or not. Now, if you want to talk hypocrites, let's talk about the way you were looking at Snape's wife the other night. To his face you act the friend, behind his back you covet Aline. That's not very sportsmanlike."

"F-k you. I never said a thing about Aline."

"Lately," Marshal corrected him. "I recall Malfoy saying you'd flirted with her once when you were drunk."

"I don't need this." Dolph got up, polished off his eggnog, and slammed the cup on the table.

"Oh, did I make you mad?" taunted Marshal, laughing. "I'm not gonna tell anyone. I'm merely pointing out that you're not so bloody perfect yourself."

"If you think I'm going to join you in your criminal-elimination spree, I'm not." Nonetheless, he sat down once more. Unspoken were the words, 'I can't'. Damn it, why did he feel drawn to this stupid escapade? Perhaps for the same reason he'd enjoyed muggle hunts years ago. Looking back was useless and counterproductive, he'd learned that much. Firefighting gave him the rush he needed, he could leave cleaning up the streets to Marshal. "Let's have some more of that eggnog."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Just thought you'd like it back," said Sirius, shrugging nonchalantly. He stirred his tea for the fourth time, lending credence to the fact that he wasn't as relaxed as he'd like to pretend.

"I'm a wee bit old for toy cars," Regulus replied guardedly. He'd not sat down since coming to his old home, wary of whatever Sirius may have planned.

Sirius shrugged again. "It's yours."

"Thanks." Reg paused, and in the silence it felt heavy and awkward. In the background, Kreacher huddled near the stove supposedly tending the water in the pot, his huge, floppy ears perking to listen. "Happy Christmas, Sirius. I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."

"You did," said the older man, and Reg saw in his wry smile the handsome lad he'd been long ago. To answer Reg's confused expression, he added, "You're talking to me again. I'd say that counts as a big step toward healing the mess I've made. It means a lot to me."

For once in…well, he couldn't say how long, Reg believed him. "You are a colossal prat," he said, smirking. "But you're my brother. We gotta stick together, yeah?"


	57. Seek Knowledge Where It May Be Found

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 57 (Seek Knowledge Where It Can Be Found)

**July**** 12, 1938**

As Tom strode down the corridor to his room, dressed in the scratchy, dull grey uniform he'd grown to hate, he was acutely aware of eyes on his back, though he steadfastly refused to turn and acknowledge them. For a month he'd endured the whispers and gapes of the other children, eager to know where he'd disappeared to and most probably wondering why he hadn't stayed there. He'd kept to himself more than ever since returning to the orphanage for summer holiday, and he had no intention of changing that now. He had nothing to say to the little freaks who couldn't do magic, nor did he care to listen to their pathetic prattling in the cafeteria and on the playground. While he may be forced to bodily associate with them, he wasn't required to speak to them.

He entered his room and closed the door behind him, feeling vaguely relieved. It was all he could do not to use magic now, he'd grown so accustomed to it at Hogwarts…but magic coming from an obviously muggle establishment would send the aurors to investigate. He merely wanted to be left alone until September came round and he could free himself from this oppressive prison. His friends had talked about meeting in Diagon Alley when it was time to purchase new school supplies, but that was a month away; in the meantime, he was doomed to be alone. Or was he?

He got off his bed where he'd flung himself onto his back and looked at the clock on the wall. He had plenty of time to go to Diagon Alley and get back before supper. Even if he wasn't permitted to do magic, he could be around wizarding folk, those who didn't think him weird or spooky. And he could investigate that alley he'd seen when he purchased his supplies last year—Knockturn Alley. The thought excited him. He didn't worry about anyone searching his room, for he'd hidden his schoolbooks and uniforms and all else quite well. No one ever discovered his hiding places.

Within a short time he'd made his way to the entrance of the wizarding world of London, tapped the stones, and was in. He stepped through and grinned in a way he rarely allowed himself, so broadly his face felt like it might crack. It was good to be home. He sauntered lazily along, peering into shops and greeting strangers as if they were old friends; he'd found that people, particularly the older folks, took a shine to him when he acted that way.

To the left he veered off into Knockturn Alley, after ascertaining no one he knew (i.e. teachers or rival students) was about. He nearly loped along till he reached the prize, Borgin and Burkes, the largest Dark Arts establishment in London, at least as far as he was aware. Impatiently slapping his own trembling hand to quiet it, he twisted the knob and opened the door. A bell clanged overhead. The place was dimly lit, giving an aura of mystery to a shop already dedicated to the bizarre and rare. Along the walls were shelves laden with a wide variety of objects that would take more than one trip to examine; an iron maiden was propped up in a corner. In front of him was a glass case, where most recent acquisitions and valuable smaller items were kept; Tom moved slowly forward to gaze down into it. He'd only noticed a clear orb with a swirling white mist inside when he heard himself addressed.

"May I help you, young man?" A small wizard, his dark hair sprinkled with white, walked in from the back room.

Tom looked up at the proprietor. "No, thank you, I was just looking."

"Do your parents know you're in here?" asked the man grimly. Lord knows, he'd had enough trouble with disgruntled adults complaining their brats had been lured into his shop!

"No, sir. I mean, I haven't any parents." Without even thinking, his 'poor little destitute orphan' expression automatically spread over his face.

As expected, the wizard softened toward him, as everyone always had—hence his proclivity for using the expression in the first place. "Sorry to hear that. What're you doing here then?"

"I've heard you run a fine establishment; I came to see for myself."

"And?" prompted the man, pushing his thatch of hair out of his face.

"First rate indeed," said Tom, allowing a smile. "If I may, I'd like to explore your inventory. It's simply enthralling."

"Smart lad," grunted the man. "I'm Mr. Burke. Who might you be?"

"Tom Riddle, sir. I'm going to be a second year at Hogwarts." He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper, "But they don't teach us anything exciting like this there."

Burke let out a barked laugh. Not often did he hear the truth told in such an unvarnished fashion. "Have at it, son. Anytime you want to come look, you're welcome. Ah, I see you've got your eye on that orb. Comes from Persia, it does. Legend has it that Dark Magic in its purest form lives in these balls. Unless you know a whole lot of spells to counter Dark Magic, you'd best not break one." He laughed again. He enjoyed scaring children with frightening tales—unfortunately, this one was no tale, but that was beside the point. This boy seemed different. He was really listening, and he didn't seem the slightest bit afraid. "Now this bracelet over here…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_July__ 12, 1938_

_ I had to go to Diagon Alley today. I'd grown sick of those nitwit muggles staring at me, asking loads of questions with their eyes, as if they cared where I'd been or what I'd been up to. I suspect they'd hoped I was in a juvenile facility, and were dismayed when I returned after school ended. Not one has the nerve to ask me outright, they all just stare from behind their books, or from their doorways as I walk by. In an odd way, it makes me __glad inside; I've a secret they can never know._

_ While I was in Diagon Alley, I slipped over to Knockturn Alley. If an adult catches you trying to enter the 'bad place', they make a fuss, but once you're in the alley, the people there don't give a hoot. I spent quite a while at a store called Borgin and Burkes, where they have loads of Dark Magic objects, and cursed items and such. Fascinating stuff. And Mr. Burke knows so much about it all. He taught me about a ball of pure Dark Magic, and a bracelet that binds the wearer to the giver. I can't wait to go back and learn more._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 3, 2001**

"Dice the newt eyes like this," Aline explained, carefully holding the edge of the slippery orb as she sliced decisively and quickly several times, repositioned the lot with a twist and drag of the ultra-sharp knife, and rapidly chopped in the opposite direction. "Make sure to keep your fingers clear or you might lose one, and Mommy isn't as good at medicine as Papa yet."

She rinsed her hands at the sink, then proceeded to crush a bit of nettle herb with a volcanic rock in a shallow bowl of similar material. "There is a huge discrepancy between grinding the herb finely or coarsely, and it can make all the difference in whether the potion is successful. _This_ qualifies as coarse. I can't count the number of students unable to grasp that concept. My babies are much brighter, though." She smiled and looked up at Aidan and Adriel, seated on the counter in matching seats closely resembling muggle baby carriers, observing their mother with wide, curious brown eyes. Their little mouths hung open in identical tiny 'o's. Adriel cooed and thrashed his limbs, reaching out for the knife which was, of course, far out of his reach.

"Not yet, my darling son. You need to learn how to handle dull laboratory objects before I let you give the real thing a try." She laughed to herself. It wouldn't hurt to let the boys get old enough to actually hold a spoon to feed themselves before training them for Potions work! They were barely four months old, surely they could do with several years of less dangerous tasks. "Let Mommy get this potion brewing, then you can watch me make you lunch. Runny rice cereal…mmmmm." She squinched up her face for their amusement.

Aidan burst out in a high pitched, tinkling laugh, and his brother did the same. An unexpected, hard knock on the door made Aline jump. She made sure the children were secure, then walked over to the door and cracked it open.

"Jorab! This is a surprise. Won't you come in?" She stepped aside to let him pass.

Rab entered the room, his eyes automatically drawn to the twins, who were giving him the once over, their heads cocked at exactly the same, precise angle. "Hello there, tiny blokes," he said. The babies gurgled an unintelligible reply. He stood there, head down, drips of melted snow falling from his cloak and shoes onto the sparkling kitchen floor.

"Congratulations. I hear Livonia has accepted your proposal," she said.

"Yes, thank you. I'm very happy about it." Why then did he look so—as Severus would say—bloody dismal?

"Can I help you?" Aline prompted. "Why don't you take off your cloak? It's quite warm in here."

"Yeah, sure." He shed the garment and Aline levitated it into the next room out of sight. He chewed his lip before coming out with his reason for being there. "I considered going to Snape…Severus…but I…" he trailed off.

Aline motioned to the kitchen table, where she pulled out a chair for him. He nodded and came over while she lifted two cups from the cupboard and set the kettle on to boil. These Brits liked their tea, she remembered. She could use some coffee herself, what with the way the children liked to wake her so early every day. She resisted the urge to prod him into talking; he'd get there when he was ready.

"We were never close, me and Snape," he said finally—and unnecessarily. Aline was very well aware of Severus' relationships with all the people in their circle, whether she wanted to be or not. Her clairvoyance over the past two years had shown her a plethora of things Severus would never have told her. "He was a lot younger, we didn't grow up together." Another awkward pause. He glanced up at the witch, who was cradling one of the babies now. "You know who I am…who I really am." It wasn't a question.

She blinked a few times. "Yes." _Let him say what he's come to say_.

"Then you know I wasn't a very nice person when I worked for Voldemort." His voice cracked ever so slightly, and he coughed to clear his throat. He shook his head with a disgusted snort. "Hell, I was a bleeding lunatic at times. Sorry." He gestured at the babies, as if they'd understood what he said and objected to it. "I did things that make my hair stand on end to remember now."

Aline merely nodded as she placed Adriel in his highchair. Hadn't she often debated within herself how to feel about these ex-Death Eater companions of Severus—Nott, the Goodmans, Marshal? She liked them as individuals, but she couldn't help but to have ambivalent emotions. Surely she couldn't condone their past activities, yet was it her place to turn them in and shatter Severus' trust? For whatever reason, her husband had faith in them to live in the world as decent folk, people willing to amend their lives and even make up for past evil…like Dolph was doing when he saved the life of that muggle girl in the fire. Perhaps it was because if anyone understood how easily one might be sucked into the life of a Death Eater, and how impossible it was to get out of it, it was Severus. Maybe it was because they'd proven themselves friends to him and to Lucius since the end of the war. And Severus was a good judge of character—when he allowed himself to be impartial; it did seem they were trying to make the world a better place now. If Severus so much as suspected they were a danger to his family or friends, he might well kill them himself, yet he permitted them to mingle. Even Bayly was willing to welcome Rab as his stepfather, though he admittedly wasn't aware of Rab's previous identity.

She sighed and followed suit with Aidan, slipping him into his highchair beside his brother, but still Rab hadn't continued, so she said, "Why did you come here? If it's to talk about your days as a Death Eater, I think someone else might be more appropriate."

"There is no one else." The strain of desperation in his voice cried out to her. "I need your help. I guess I should say the _Longbottoms_ need your help."

"Neville?" she asked, confused.

"No. His parents. Is there anything that can be done to reverse the damage?" he pleaded. She understood the tone so well; she'd heard it in her father's voice as he begged her to create a potion to shrink her mother's tumor, and it filled her with dread. She saw immediately where this was heading.

Aline scooped some loose tea into one cup and filled it with water, then poured herself some coffee. She brought the cups over and set them down, but remained standing. She still had to fix some rice cereal for the babies. "From what I understand, the doctors and mediwitches and mediwizards have done all they can."

"And yet in all these years, nothing has changed!" Rabby exclaimed. "Why don't they try something new?"

"I don't know," she confessed. A little hot water went into the cereal, she stirred, and then added a bit of cold water to thin and cool it. "Why are you so concerned?"

Rab stared at her, not hiding the guilt in his face, until he could no longer bear the weight of it. He couldn't undo the numerous murders of innocent people (he frankly didn't count among that number those who'd been trying to kill him in return), he couldn't un-torture people he'd afflicted, but maybe he could alleviate some of the damage he'd inflicted on this couple. Sometimes he thought those fourteen hellish years in Azkaban, tormented by dementors, was adequate punishment for what he'd done, and other times he didn't know what to think. Aline was compassionate enough not to label him for what he was, not to make him feel like a worthless piece of crap like he'd felt before—no, he mustn't go that route again.

"You know the reason, Aline. I need for them to get well, for them to know their son!"

"For Neville's sake or your own?"

"Can't it be both?" he croaked, looking near tears.

Her façade was cracking; soon he'd see how difficult it was for her to resist lending a hand, especially when it involved a challenge, even an unattainable one…especially when it might aid a man desperate for forgiveness that would never come in this lifetime, a man striving to make amends for the one thing in his past where amends could be attempted. "Why do you assume I'm gifted enough for such a feat, Jorab? If all those doctors haven't done anything—"

"Please, Aline!" He paused, panting slightly. "You're very clever, you created that potion to help your mum—an inoperable tumor, for Merlin's sake! Everyone said it was hopeless, and she would have died but for you. Don't look surprised, word gets through the grapevine round here. You and Snape formulated that brew to get Malfoy through the Veil to save Narcissa. These aren't pissy little tricks, they're substantial, valuable contributions to science and medicine."

Aline couldn't hide a wry grin. Flattery? She'd not actually expected that from him. "I didn't realize you were interested in science."

He failed to react to her mild sarcasm. The tea in front of him grew cold as he gazed down into it. "Can't you—won't you—try to find some cure for the Longbottoms? I will fund any and all research, I'll pay for your time, and I'll make sure you get full credit."

"I don't care about the credit," she said softly, relenting. As gently as she could, she explained, "I would love nothing better than to help them, I honestly would. The thing is, it's a horrendously complicated situation."

She blew out a hard breath. She'd worked near Neville for two years now, she'd come to like him quite a lot; his parents' plight had touched her heart. She and Severus had discussed the condition of the Longbottoms in private, and come to the conclusion that overcoming the damage would be unachievable, or nigh so because of not only psychological breakdown, but severe physical trauma to the brain. Any attempt at a cure had to address both the physical and mental components, and that remedy would require a skilled Legilimens. Not just any Legilimens, one with vast knowledge of the workings of the body, of healing and potions—and yes, that described Severus perfectly, but he had so much on his plate already. And this particular case would serve as a reminder of the days he'd spent at Voldemort's beck and call, of the things he and others had been forced to do.

She averted her eyes. "Severus doesn't like to be reminded of the past. Before anything could be done, I'd need him for his Legilimens talent. He'd have to search their minds, see if anything is left to salvage. If he could diagnose the problem, I could begin to work on it, but I can't do it alone."

"And you don't think he'd agree to help you?" Rabby asked, truly mystified. He'd seen the way Snape looked at his wife with a burning love that Rab had never suspected the wizard capable of. If anyone could sway him, get him to do what he didn't want to, it was her. "Snape had nothing to do with the Longbottoms, it wasn't his fault." Why had he said that?

"I understand that. It's…everything. He has a full workload." It was a pitiful excuse, and when she saw his face fall it cut her to the bone. "I'll talk to him, but I can't promise anything. And even if he agrees to try, there's no guarantee of finding a cure—we could work for years, all for nothing."

For the first time since he'd arrived, Jorab smiled. "You are truly one of the kindest people I've ever known."

She smiled back and handed him a small bowl and spoon. "Thank you. If you don't mind, will you assist me in feeding the children?"

Rab took the bowl in an awkward grip. Feed a child? How hard could it be, right? He watched Aline scoop a dripping spoonful and aim it at Aidan's mouth. The tyke opened up and swallowed it whole. Simple enough. He copied her actions; Adriel opened his mouth and let the food come in…then promptly spit it back out slowly, shoving it bit by bit with his tongue and grimacing, then proceeded to drag his fat little palms through the mess on his chest.

"What's wrong? Your brother is eating." He tried again. This time Adriel grinned coyly before accepting the cereal and deliberately blowing it all over the man, then the lad burst into giggles at the sight of cereal dripping from his forehead and nose.

"I'm sorry, Rab. They can be a handful." She whisked the mess from his face, hair, and robes with a _scourgify_, and got up. "Let's switch. Usually Aidan is the naughty one, only he's behaving today."

"It's alright," Rabby said, studying the tot and rubbing his hand in wonder over the downy scalp. The child felt so soft, and so…innocent. "He's just playing. Let him be a kid."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The seashore. Even as a young girl, Sunny realized that mid-winter was hardly the time to enjoy such a place—in England, at any rate. The wind was cold and whipped through her robes, the waters were choppy and frigid, not conducive to swimming, and the sun scarcely made an appearance from behind the ever-present clouds. Yet every year without fail, her parents bundled them up and apparated them to this deserted stretch of sandy shore.

"Mummy, why do we have to come here?" she whined for the tenth time, huddled next to the small campfire burning in front of the family tent. The wind lifted her blond curls and slapped them about her face.

"I thought you liked the beach," said Mrs. Hawbecker, swallowing an irritated snap. "Your father and I like to come here because this is where we met—yes, in the winter. It's only for a couple of days, you girls could pretend to enjoy it!" She refrained from pointing out that when the girls were old enough, they'd be left at home to give the adults some privacy to truly enjoy their memories.

Sunny glowered at the woman and flung back the tent flap. There was Therese, sitting in the corner poring over a stupid schoolbook just as she'd been doing since she got home from Hogwarts. She never wanted to play anymore, all she did was read, read, read like a zombie…a zombie that could read, that is. If such a thing existed. Sunny sauntered to the corner, squatted down, and looked at the title of the book. _The History of Hogwarts_. Sounded fascinating. NOT.

"Where's Daddy?" asked Sunny.

Therese didn't even look up from her text. At last the younger lass rose to her feet and stamped out of the tent as forcefully as one can stamp on sand and cause any kind of resonance. Her mother was no longer nearby, either. She and Daddy had probably sneaked off to the rocks where they liked to snog. They thought she didn't know, but she'd seen them many times.

She walked down to the water's edge, where the waves crashed and lapped violently at her feet. If she hadn't already done so earlier, she'd have stepped a toe in to get a feel of the water. Far too cold for wading, let alone swimming. A shrewd thought passed into her head, and she smiled. If she couldn't persuade her sister to come play, maybe she could force her. Grinning, she held out both hands toward the tent. "_Accio_ schoolbook."

The large, heavy volume whizzed out of the tent and straight into her waiting hands. It was still open, and nestled between the pages of the text she saw a small, brown, leather book that snapped shut as it reached her. Sunny gaped in wonder. So that's why Therese was so busy! She'd been writing a diary! Quickly she laid _The History of Hogwarts_ on the sand, picked up the diary, and was poised to open it when Therese roared out of the tent, engulfed in fury.

"How dare you steal my book, you little toad!"

Sunny glanced up, then took off at a dead run up one of the sand dunes. Weaving around clumps of dried grasses and flotsam, she scurried up the hill laughing. Therese dashed after her, her wand out. A second later a red jet sailed past the girl's arm, and she screamed, the noise muffled by the roar of the ocean. Another spell whirred overhead, barely missing her as she ducked and scampered down another dune, headed for the water. She'd got near when Therese burst over the dune, aiming her wand.

"Give me my diary." Merlin's beard, that voice didn't sound like Therese! It was too deep, too malevolent; it almost seemed like…an angry _boy_.

Sunny halted, frozen in place. This wasn't right; Therese was a nice sister, only now she wasn't, and it all started when she went to Hogwarts. Maybe this stupid diary she was writing had something to do with it…but she couldn't read it, not now when Therese knew she had it. Without any rational thought, she flung the book as hard as she could into the ocean.

Bellowing irately, Therese charged down the dune throwing curses from her wand. Sunny reacted instinctively, shielding herself with a _protego_ despite not knowing the name for the spell. Therese ceased fire and called out, "_Accio_ my diary."

The brown object soared from the water, dripping wet, straight into her hand, where Therese cradled it to her chest. She turned to her sister, her eyes like daggers. "If you ever do that again, you'll be very sorry." Then she stormed off.

Sunny shouted after her, "I'm telling Mum and Dad you tried to kill me!"

Her sister didn't deign to reply, and Sunny knew why. Therese was their favoured child, even if she wasn't as powerful as Sunny—or maybe because of it. Since Abraxas Malfoy had given part of his magical core to Sunny, she'd been a magical prodigy, able to do things other children her age (and older) could not. In the process, it probably made Therese feel deficient despite the fact that she was perfectly as normal and strong as others her age. Their parents would never believe something so mean about their darling as that she'd attacked Sunny without real provocation—and illegally with her wand, at that.

She sulked off to a pile of rocks overlooking the ocean and climbed onto them. This holiday stank! When she got back, she was going to owl Lucius Malfoy and say…what? Her parents wanted time to snog and her sister was insane? Yeah, that sounded like a whinging baby. She threw herself onto her back to stare up into the cloudy sky, and wrapped her arms round herself. She wanted to go home. No, she didn't, she wanted to see Lucius. He'd told her he'd had an older brother and sister once; he'd understand. She closed her eyes and concentrated on Lucius Malfoy.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Lucius, I'm speaking to you." Narcissa nudged his arm to bring him back to focus.

"Sorry, love. I thought I heard something."

"I didn't hear anything," she remarked, turning her attention back to the matter at hand. "Which brings us back to ringtones." She set her sky-blue mobile phone on the study desk and gave it a delighted pat, as if it were a beloved pet. How she loved her new toy, even if Lucius was the only one she called on it. Oh, she could speak to Romulus, she supposed, but he might have work to do.

Still appearing distracted, Lucius murmured, "Are you sure you didn't hear a voice saying my name?" he pressed, peering keenly at her with those grey eyes that made her melt.

"Lucius, I think I'd know if I were calling you, and there isn't anyone else here." Narcissa kissed the tip of his nose. "Now help me decide. We've downloaded five different muggle song snippets; which one is the least offensive?"

"Whatever you like best, darling," he answered. "Choose which one you fancy and press this button to set it as your ringtone."

That alone gave Narcissa pause. Lucius not only didn't care that they'd programmed muggle songs into her phone, he seemed indifferent as to which she used. Very odd. Was he feeling well? If he were hearing voices, probably not. She scrolled over the list of ringtones, played two or three again, then settled on the one that made her smile, made her feel like Lucius was singing to her: _Nights in White Satin_. She listened to it again, smiling dreamily. _And I love youuuuu….yes, I love youuuu! Ooooh, how I love youuuuuuu. Oh, how I love youuuuu._

"Wonderful choice," Lucius said, snaking an arm round her waist. He didn't look distracted anymore. "Maybe I should put the same one in my phone."

"I think that's sweet," she cooed back.

The door to the study burst open and Draco came in with a curious expression on his face as his parents hurriedly chucked the phone into the top drawer and tried to act nonchalant. "What was that? I heard music and singing in here."

"You must be hearing things, like your father," Narcissa smiled, leaning back in the leather chair and stroking Lucius' hand.

Lucius looked up from where he stood at the desk beside his wife. "Son, have you forgotten that you knock before entering my study?"

"No, sir, but I…sorry." He glanced at his parents, his eyes narrowing. What were they up to? Oh, geez, hopefully not ready to attack each other again! They looked guilty and shifty enough! He'd luckily missed out on seeing them half-nude, a scene he'd not been able to totally eradicate from his brain the last time he'd witnessed it. He backed up slowly. "I think I'll go visit Tori." He whirled and ran out.

Lucius snickered into his wife's ear. "He can't bear to think we may be, uh, making love. One day his children will be mortified that he and Astoria still fancy each other."

"You have a way with words, darling," she breathed back. "Now, let's listen to that ringtone again."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Severus adored Aline and his children, he really did. Anyone who knew him would testify to that fact. Aline made him a very happy man, she was everything he could have asked for and more, and if circumstances were such that Aline could perform this deed with him, he'd have chosen her above all; however, she had the boys to tend to, and work, and being exhausted all the time. It simply wasn't feasible, and sometimes he needed to vent some aggression whether she could join in or not. And—he hated to say it—Aline wasn't quite up to his standards, even though she won hands down over most others. She was excellent, yes, but…once in a while he wanted more.

He stalked along the corridor, pacing back and forth as he waited for the Room of Requirement to open for him. At last the entryway formed and he went in to a long, empty, practically sterile environment. The Fiendfyre that had destroyed the place a couple years back had long since burned out, and he and Minerva had cleaned out the rubbish and polished the stones to look nearly new. All he had to do now was wait.

It didn't take long. The witch laughed in that high-pitched way that grated on his ears. "There you are. Can't get enough of me, can you?"

Severus spun round quickly, sneering. He saw the witch step out from behind a pillar, brace her legs, and mock him with every fiber of her being. "You're only here for practical purposes, bitch. Don't get a conceited opinion of yourself."

"By coming here with me, you're admitting I'm better at it than the trollop you married—what's her name? Aline?" She gave a derisive snort.

Fire lit in Severus' black eyes, smoldering menacingly. "I told you never to mention her. You aren't worthy of speaking her name."

"But I'm worthy of spending your time with, aren't I, halfbreed?" She slowly bent down and sensuously pulled her wand from the stocking poking out from her spiky-heeled boot, as if she were in a vaudeville show. "Time to teach you some manners."

The witch grinned wolfishly, so like the way he remembered her it almost made Snape's heart freeze. But this was what he'd requested; if he wanted to get better, he needed to practice on someone with superior ability. If Aline—when Aline—found out what he'd been up to, she'd be upset. Hopefully he'd be able to teach her some new curses and tricks to mollify her.

Severus flicked his hand and his wand shot down from the wrist holster into his fingers. He'd never been able to beat the skank in life, and so far not even in death, but he felt he was gaining ground. "I'm ready when you are, Bella."


	58. Winners and Losers

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 58 (Winners and Losers)

**January 24, 1939**

A student hurrying to enter before doors were closed for the session crashed into Tom's shoulder, knocking his head into Mulciber's face and causing a split lip. The latter, ramming his sleeve against the injury, growled a series of epithets that would put a drunken sailor to shame; Tom merely stared coldly at the offending fifth year. As a mere second year in his second term, Tom had found it prudent to keep his opinions to himself; he also thought it necessary to prevent Mulciber from retaliating by grasping the wand that had appeared in his hand.

"Not now," Riddle murmured quietly. The simple tilt of his head at the door served as a reminder that once session had ended, all bets were off and Mulciber was free to do as he liked.

All at once the great doors slammed shut with a resounding bang. The professor, a tall, heavy woman in blue silk jodhpurs and riding boots, topped with a lacy white blouse reminiscent of the pirate era, stepped up onto the makeshift stage around which the pupils gathered. She cleared her throat, and said, "Hello, and welcome to Dueling Club. Most of you know me, I am Professor Spade, and I will be the dueling teacher. We owe a debt of gratitude to Headmaster Dippet for allowing us to reinstate this club, which has been defunct since that unfortunate incident three years ago." For those who hadn't been around at that time, she made no effort to explain said 'incident'.

There followed some light clapping, then a rundown of the rules, to which Tom listened attentively. He loved magic, anything to do with magic; he loved even more the idea of learning to battle and defeat his enemies in combat. Already he had begun forming strategies in his mind, people he'd like to punish…

"Keep in mind that etiquette is part of dueling," stated Professor Slade. "It isn't all throwing hexes and trying to win, although that is the better part of it." She chuckled as she drew her wand from the beribboned cleavage of her blouse. "Who'd like to go first, to demonstrate for us? How about a few of you older students that dueled in previous years?"

A boy and a girl climbed up onto the stage, both of them seventh years that Tom recognized from Slytherin House. They stood back to back, and at the teacher's signal paced away from each other until they were several meters apart, turned, and bowed. In a split second both were upright, alert, and ready to kill…er, duel.

The girl cast a silent yellow stream that the boy deflected with a flick of his wrist. Tom noted that the ricocheted curse had not struck anyone in the audience, and then he realized why: the teacher had protected the onlookers with an expansive shield charm on either side of the stage. The boy returned a red spell, which the girl avoided with a twist of her body as she flung back two in succession. Twice more they exchanged spells, none of them finding their mark. As it continued, Tom watched in near-ecstasy at the delicate struggle between the combatants, the way they turned aside hexes, sometimes easily, other times in the nick of time; he reveled in the way they dodged, ducked, dipped, and dived…it was, in a manner of speaking, a beautiful dance that in dire circumstances could become a dance of death.

"I think that's enough for now. Thank you." The teacher shooed the students off the stage, to more polite applause. "Lance and Portia were two of my best pupils, and you can see why. Notice the way they used their spells to turn aside those of their opponent. This is key to winning."

"How come they didn't say anything?" piped up Mulciber.

"Good question, young man. They're utilizing non-verbal spells, which make it far more difficult for their opponents to counter. What year are you?"

"Second."

"You haven't yet begun to learn non-verbals, but I expect those in year five and above to try their best not to speak hexes as you cast." Professor Spade waved her wand in a circle above her head and the room seemed to expand until it was at least three times its normal size. "Let's divide up into pairs and do some sparring. You may use any spells you know except curses that may cause injury. Younger students, concentrate on deflecting the spells for now, using a spell of your own. And don't forget to utilize your etiquette!"

The group broke into pairs as requested, leaving a lone student without a challenger, a tiny boy with short dark hair who barely came to the teacher's waist. He strode up to Mulciber and Riddle, recognizing them as lowerclassmen. In a voice resembling a squeak, he said, "You blokes want to duel me? I can take you both on at once."

Tom and Mulciber exchanged disbelieving glances, then burst out laughing. "You want to duel us both—at once?" said Tom, to be clear. He didn't recall this Ravenclaw kid being in his year; in fact, he was so small Tom wondered if he were even old enough to be a firstie.

"Yes," replied the boy, nodding. "Come on, back to back."

Still chortling a bit, the two second years put their backs to the boy, paced out, and turned to bow. They'd scarcely risen when a hex barreled at Mulciber, who narrowly turned it away with a shouted _stupefy_. Alert now, Tom deflected the next two hexes simultaneously, and managed to throw one back. It didn't reach its mark, for the little boy was a surprisingly adept dueling machine. In three swift moves he deflected both Tom's and Mulciber's hexes. Where he found time to cast another was a mystery, but it caught Mulciber in the chest and dropped him where he stood. He lay on the floor panting as another hex sailed in, this time toward Tom. Riddle ducked and threw a curse that he was sure was forbidden, but it didn't strike anyway. A second later his wand flew from his hand toward the wee kid, and his face flushed with shame and anger.

The boy walked over to them, smiling. Tom wished he could knock the smile off his prattish face. "Not bad—what's your name?"

"Tom Riddle," growled the other through clenched teeth.

"I'm Filius Flitwick, seventh year," said the Ravenclaw, handing him his wand. "You shouldn't underestimate people based on size." With that he wandered across the room to chat with another couple who'd taken a break from sparring.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Jan. 24, 1939_

_ Today we had our first exercise in dueling. It was exhilarating, except for the part that was humiliating. Some seventh year ponce took it upon himself to teach me and Mulciber a lesson, undoubtedly because we're in the big, bad House of Slytherin. Everyone here hates Slytherin, I don't understand why. Our House is no different from the rest, except we're better. We work hard, we keep to ourselves—now I see that is from necessity, safety in numbers and all._

_It was partly my own fault I was defeated in that duel. The seventh year wasn't speaking his spells, that should have been a giveaway that he wasn't as young as I thought. I must be more wary in the future. Still, it did teach me more than I believed it would, not only about dueling but about combat. He was impressed by me, I could tell. He didn't expect a second year to be able to hold up against him at all. If I ever face him again, I will be ready. I look forward to more dueling classes._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 7, 2001**

Sunday evening at the Nott estate wasn't generally a merry time, for Theo lived there alone, and had for quite some time. However, given the knowledge that his friends Draco and Astoria were to be leaving tomorrow for Bulgaria and musical tour, respectively, he'd sent out word to his chums to meet there for a going away bash. He'd notably not invited any parents—especially not his own—who tended to dampen youth festivities like wet blankets on a campfire.

Outside in the large back acreage, the young people had gathered for broom races, with the spectators playfully drinking various juices and 'muggle fizzy drinks', eating snacks, and betting on the winners and losers. At the start line, hovering five meters above the ground, were Regulus, Draco, Bayly, and Gloria, all of whom had easily trounced the remaining partygoers in several previous races. Below, the crowd consisted of Astoria, Daphne, Sirius, Blaise, Theo, Jacinta, Pansy, and Gregory Goyle—and a few of Astoria's girlfriends from school.

"You know the drill," Theo shouted to the riders. "Through the wood to the tall oak in the field, go round twice, and the first one to get back and cross this line wins." He tapped a flickering green line he'd magically drawn on the ground beneath them. "On my mark." He raised his wand, waited…waited…waited till the contestants were getting antsy, then blasted red a flare into the air, and they were off.

Draco took the lead immediately, but the others were so close upon him he couldn't have reached back without touching one. They zoomed toward the thick wood and simultaneously dove beneath a canopy of branches hoping to unseat them. Now they fanned out to prevent striking a tree full force, zig-zagging and dipping through the wood, the trees coming at them so fast they relied purely on reflex. A thin branch whipped Reg in the face at the corner of his eye, leaving a welt and causing him to slow up from the involuntary tearing.

When Draco reached the open field he glanced back and snickered. One down. However, he still had Gloria on his tail—or more aptly, on his wing. She'd gained ground. Where the hell was Bayly? He hadn't time to search, not if he wanted to survive in one piece. Bent forward over the broom, racing toward the largest oak in the whole wood, he canted to the left and swung round in a tight arc, Gloria plastered to him. On the beginning of the second pass, Bayly showed up heading directly for them. Instead of circling left as they had, he'd swung his broom to the right, straight into their path.

Gloria screamed and flew wide, diving under him and completing the turn. Draco, hemmed between Gloria and the tree, with Bayly advancing on him, was forced to fly up and over Bayly, then return to finish the second pass around the oak. That single moment was enough to give Gloria the edge, and she roared toward the glowing green line with Bayly and Draco hot on her tail. She soared over the finish line to the mighty applause of the tiny crowd below.

Angling his broom, Draco landed softly, then walked over to Bayly and out of the blue shoved him in the chest. "You did that on purpose! You wanted me to lose!"

Bayly snorted and replied sarcastically, "Right. In Quidditch nothing ever comes up to make you veer off course."

"No one specified which direction to circle the tree," Theo said, interjecting himself between the two young men. "And you're all good enough on a broom to stop the whining already. It's just a bloody game."

"Yeah, sorry," Draco said. He'd sooner die than admit he'd been embarrassed at losing in front of Tori. He held out a hand, which Bayly took with a nod.

Gloria sauntered over, took her husband by the arm, and led him off a piece. She peered up into his eyes as she brushed his wind-ruffled blond hair back. "You did do that on purpose, didn't you?"

Bayly flashed her a smile and hugged her to him. "Yeah, I did. I knew he wouldn't have anywhere to go, and you'd win."

"That's not very sportsmanlike," she remarked. "And don't you think I could have won by myself?"

She felt him shrug in her arms. "Maybe. We're all pretty evenly matched. But you're the only one who's my wife." He squeezed her as he chuckled.

Draco soon discovered, to his great delight, that being a…not winner…wasn't so bad after all. Tori had wrapped herself around him and cooed her condolences, had even brought him a beverage from the side table set up in the yard. She didn't seem to care that he hadn't won, and frankly it was a relief. All his life he'd felt so pressured to be the best at everything, and she honestly didn't care. He sat in the grass beside her, scooting down and letting his head rest on her lap. Much better.

Perhaps it was time, while no one was paying them any mind. He'd meant to hold off, but the love burning in his breast egged him on. It didn't matter that he wasn't following some rigid, ancient formula, or that he wasn't dressed properly, or that they weren't even alone. He wanted to do this his way.

"Tori, we've talked about the future. I know I said we ought to delay it for a while." He flipped over so his face was heavenward, staring up at her darling purple eyes, her face shrouded with that luxurious dark hair silhouetted against the sun's rays. "We still have our separate lives to lead, but…I'd like to be engaged, if that's alright with you."

Astoria's face split into a wide grin, then a smile so broad it made her face hurt a little. "I'd like that, too, Draco." She bent down and pressed her lips hard on his.

_Crash_. Splinters of a small dessert plate flew in all directions, and the couple's heads jerked up. Blaise had thrown the dish into the air and shattered it with his wand in a wizard version of skeet shooting.

"Care for a contest?" asked Jacinta, twirling her wand in her fingers, smirking exactly like her father.

Theo gaped at the dish, ready to bellow that these belonged to his parents…then Jacinta spoke, and he couldn't bear to ruin her fun. He'd just have to buy a new set. It wasn't as if Mum liked this set anyway, it had been given her by someone at her wedding. She never even used it because she claimed it was 'the most hideous pattern this side of plaid'.

"Be my guest." Blaise flung another plate high and away. It soared up, up until Jacinta was squinting from the sun; she smashed it with a well-aimed spell before it had reached full height.

"My turn." Sirius stepped in grinning. Blaise obligingly threw another plate; Sirius followed it with his wand, waited till it had reached its pinnacle and began falling to the ground, till it was mere inches off the lawn before demolishing it with a spell. He turned to them and bowed, laughing.

"I'll do you one better," said Theo, approaching with a smirk surprisingly similar to Jacinta's. "Blaise, toss three plates in the air at once."

His cousin studied him briefly; he knew Theo better than anyone. Theo was low key, mild, not one to show off even at things he was good at. So what was the deal? He gathered three plates in a stack, backed up, and flung them as high as he could. Theo blasted each of them, one after the other, in rapid succession before any had even begun the downward fall.

"Nicely done, Theo," Jacinta commented, obviously impressed, sidling up to him and kissing him on the lips.

Blaise slapped his own forehead. Ah, there it was, that was the angle. A girl. Duh! What had he been thinking? That smile she gave him certainly qualified as what Blaise would call sexy. Then again, he tended to see sex in most things, making it fairly unreliable as an indicator. Speaking of which, he glanced over at Astoria's friends again. Nah…none of them pretty enough…and they'd already made plain they weren't falling for his lines. He turned up his nose in their direction.

"We all have our talents, my darling Cinta. Maybe later I can show you a few more," Theo whispered in her ear, making her giggle like a schoolgirl.

"Look, everybody! Draco and Astoria are engaged!" Daphne shouted, pointing at the pair. If Blaise didn't know better, he'd say Daphne had done it deliberately to take attention from Jacinta…oh, who was he kidding. Daphne and Jacinta had never gotten along, _of course_ she'd done it now for that reason.

Sirius, beside Daphne, commented to no one in particular in a pseudo-woebegone tone, "If Daphne had accepted when I proposed to her, we'd be married by now. Instead her sister will beat us to the altar."

"Assuming we ever get there," Daphne said dryly.

The wizard winked at her. "We will. I'm wearing you down, honey. I'm wearing you down."

"Like rain on a rock," she replied, though she edged closer and let him put his arm round her waist. Her head rested easily on his shoulder.

"This calls for a celebration," Theo announced, dragging Jacinta toward the house by her hand. "We'll go get the cake and champagne—non-alcoholic," he added with a nod to Reg, who was nursing his swollen eye and not paying attention. "Then we can dance till we drop."

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**January 8, 2001**

At the tap-tap-tapping on the window, Lucius looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. He'd been expecting an owl bringing a contract for him to look over and sign, but the big, brown beast perched on his windowsill grooming itself with its beak wasn't carrying anything large enough to be a document. In fact, he recognized it as belonging to the Hawbecker family. He smiled as he slid open the window and untied the note from its leg. It ignored him, more intent on a beetle crawling up the side of the house; a lunge and snap of its jaw grabbed the insect.

_Dear Lucius,_

_We're back from our horrible vacation at the beach. I don't know why they make us go there every year, it's cold and windy and ugly and wet. I can't wait till I'm old enough to stay at home. Christmas was okay before we left, though. Father Christmas gave me a sled for the hill in the back garden. Maybe I could use it at your estate, on that hill behind the pond—if it's okay. Mum doesn't like me to ask favours._

_I waited till Therese went back to Hogwarts to write you, 'cause I didn't want her finding out. She was mean to me over holiday. She's been acting weird ever since she went to Hogwarts, and I think it's because of that stupid diary. She sits there reading it all the time like a brain dead zombie and doesn't wanna do anything fun. I saw it when I stole her book—not stole, really. That's wrong to do. She wouldn't play with me and I used accio, but anyway there was a diary inside. She got cross with me and tried to hex me_._ I didn't tell Mummy or Daddy since they wouldn't believe me anyway._

_ You had a brother and sister, right? Were they mean to you? Therese used to be nice mostly, only now she doesn't want me around. I hate her. It's not nice to hate but I don't care. Can I come visit?_

_Love, Sunny_

Hands trembling slightly, Lucius reread the note, his pale complexion fading to a chalky white. After what had happened to Severus, the mere mention of a diary in conjunction with odd behaviour frightened him. Surely he was blowing this out of proportion; it was simply a silly girl's journal, and she'd become upset that her sister invaded her privacy. But when it came down to it, he didn't have terribly good luck with diaries, now did he? Lord Voldemort had given him one to keep safe—one that turned out to be a horcrux that nearly killed Ginny Weasley and brought the dark lord back as a teenaged nutcase. Then the ones recently that had twisted Severus' mind into Tom Riddle's…'_bad luck'_ seemed a gross understatement.

He got up, _accio_'d his cane and cloak, and hurried to the front door even as he called out to Sisidy to tell Narcissa he'd be back soon. The moment he stepped out the front door, he paused in place, hesitating. He couldn't show up at Sunny's house like this. What would her parents think? He'd have to explain the whole thing, and get everyone in a panic, and for what? His overactive imagination? He shook his head. Whatever the case, he must be certain before giving voice to such a horrific notion.

He sighed and reentered the mansion, keeping the cloak and cane with him as he walked into the main sitting room. He flopped on the couch, head in his hands.

"What's wrong, Lucius?" asked his mother from her portrait.

Lucius looked up at her, his grey eyes like a stormy sea. "I'm afraid there may be more problems with those damned Voldemort diaries."

"Language, son," admonished his father. "What do you mean?"

"Sunny's sister has been acting strangely, and Sunny said she's been reading a diary…"

Abraxas quirked a blond eyebrow. "So you presumed that this little girl somehow got ahold of one of Severus'—Tom's books that is locked in the Headmaster's office at school?"

"No!" Lucius shot back automatically, although it was precisely what he'd meant to say. He hated it when Father could see right through him, which throughout his life had been most of the time. "Well, yes—I don't know—that's the problem! It's probably nothing, yet if there exists a one in a million chance, dare I overlook it?" He rolled Sunny's note about in his sweaty palm, nervously crumpling it over and over.

"Invite Sunny over and speak to her," suggested Thalia. "She may be able to give you more information to set your mind at ease."

Yes, he could do that. She'd asked if she could come over. On what pretense? A mere visit? Well, why not? He'd not seen her for weeks, since before Christmas. "Sisidy!"

The elf popped in and toddled over to her master to snuggle against his leg. "Yes, Master Malfoy?" Her aged cheek brushed his pantleg lovingly.

"Go to Sunny's house and ask that she be permitted to come here for lunch. Here, I'll write a note." He leapt up and ran down the hall into his study, where he managed to pen a viable invitation that didn't sound too urgent, while giving the impression that nothing was amiss. And for all he knew, it wasn't.

_Dear Mrs. Hawbecker,_

_Sunny has written me, asking if she might visit. I happen to be free this afternoon, and would love the pleasure of her company for lunch, if that is agreeable to you. My wife and children would be delighted to see her again as well. Please respond to the elf, and I look forward to meeting Sunny through the floo very soon._

_Best regards, Lucius Malfoy_

Now he must wait. He handed the note to Sisidy, who'd followed him into his study, and the elf disappeared. He paced the floor a bit, then rounded the desk and seated himself in the overstuffed leather chair. Ordinarily it felt comforting, but right now he was too edgy to relax. Fortunately he had not long to wait. Sisidy returned, smiling broadly in that manner that made house elves look like psychotic, oversize dolls.

"Mrs. Hawbecker says Master Malfoy can expects Sunny in a little while," crowed the elf, happy to know her master got what he'd wanted.

"Thank you, Sisidy. Would you tell Cinchona we have another for lunch?" He almost started off to go upstairs to let Narcissa know they'd have a guest, but hesitated again. Should he question Sunny right off, or wait till after they ate? If things went well, it wouldn't make a difference…if they went awry, it might be best to have food in the stomach to prevent dry heaves. _Well done, Lucius, now you even plan for what you're going to vomit._

He ignored his inner critic. It rarely had anything affable or helpful to add to the discussion. The thing was, if he was right about the diary—and he seriously hoped he was not—he would need to get to Severus as soon as possible, meaning he'd either have to take Sunny with him (not really an option), leave her alone with Narcissa and the children (creating suspicion as to why he'd leave when she was visiting), or send her home early (prompting her mother to assume he didn't want the girl around). _Unless_ they ate, had a nice visit with pertinent questions slipped in nonchalantly, and _then_ he sneaked off to see Snape. Yes, that could work, and he wouldn't have to explain to anyone until he knew what in bloody hell he was explaining.

Narcissa stood near the fireplace, holding tightly to Khala's hand, while Lucius monitored Ladon to make sure he didn't get into mischief as they anticipated the arrival of their guest. Scarcely a moment later the golden-haired girl trotted in with an eruption of blue flame, and upon seeing Lucius she beamed, ran at him, and hugged him about the waist.

"Hi, Lucius!" She let go and ran to Narcissa for another embrace. Not to be outdone, Khala opened her arms and toddled forward for a hug, which Sunny happily provided, followed by Ladon, who wasn't about to let everyone else get something without getting some for himself.

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"Mine!" Ladon squawked as Lucius dragged his sled up the gentle slope beyond the pond. Lucius liked physical exertion like this, and wanted his children to grow up using their bodies as well as their magical skills for play. Pouting, Ladon tramped in his father's footsteps, complaining in not quite two-year-old language about the injustice of it all. Was it not his sled? Why did he have to share it with not only his sister and parents, but this other girl as well?

"Son, you must learn to share," Narcissa said, lifting him into her arms to haul him the rest of the way up the hill. "It's only for a little while."

Khala, who'd been waddling along the ridge at the top with Sunny, screeched happily and plopped onto the sled, her tiny body bound up in a heavy coat and fuzzy pink hat. Sunny got behind her, gesturing at Ladon. "Come sit here in front, Ladon!"

Letting his better nature out, the boy grinned and hopped aboard, sandwiching Khala between himself and Sunny. Lucius gave the sled a shove and it careened down the slope with Narcissa watching like a mother hen, wand at ready, lest one of the chicks fall off and be injured. For the better part of an hour they played, till the adults were cold and tired and deemed it time to go in—and time to send Sunny home before her mother got worried.

As they walked toward the house, Lucius hauling a weary Ladon on his back, he casually said, "What did your sister's diary look like, Sunny?"

The little girl shrugged. "About so big." She measured in the air the approximate dimensions of the tiny book. "Brown, leather…kind of raggedy and old looking. Weird, huh?"

Unable to keep from shuddering at the description, Lucius pressed on. "Did you read any of it?"

"No, I didn't get a chance. Therese was trying to hex me, so I threw the book in the ocean and she got it back out and went in the tent."

"Have you ever seen her writing in the diary?" asked Narcissa, the high pitch of her voice showing her apprehension. The glance she cast her husband's way made apparent she understood what Lucius was digging for, and it chilled her more than the cold wind ever could.

Sunny shook her head, her curls bouncing. "No. I got a tiny glimpse at the writing, and it didn't even look like hers. She reads it a lot, though." Both of the adults exchanged similar anxious glances.

"Where did she get it?" asked Lucius point blank.

Sunny stopped in place, twisting her head to look at him. Lucius never sounded so gruff with her. "I don't know. Do you think she took it from somebody? Are you mad at me?"

"No, sweetie," he said softly, kneeling down in the snow and gently kissing her brow. "I just think I ought to tell Severus about it. I'm sure he'd be interested."

"Why? It's just a dumb book."

"Maybe. But I think I ought to tell him," Lucius repeated, getting to his feet. "And you, young lady, must drink your spiced hot chocolate quickly so we can send you home, lest your mother send troops to get you."

Sunny laughed and ran for the house. When she'd got far enough away that she couldn't overhear, Narcissa shifted Khala in her arms and said grimly, "It's starting over, isn't it?"

Lucius swallowed. He couldn't lie to her…he didn't honestly know the truth, so he merely answered, "We'll let Severus figure that out."

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"Mr. Shelby, please tell me this is not your patronus." Severus stood over the sixth year, arms crossed over his thin chest, foot tapping under the new black linen robe Aline had bought him. He rather liked it, despite its inability to billow properly.

The boy attempted a feeble smile as the entire class turned to view the hint of vapor floating in the air like a cirrus cloud on a windy day. "I—well, it—I tried."

The entire class sucked in a breath, every eye now on the pair. _I tried?_ What was the kid aiming to do, get himself killed? One didn't _try_ in Snape's class, one _did_. In the immortal words of some little green muggle idol, "There is no try, only _do_ and _do not_." Had they not been assigned this very task to practice last night? And the weeks before Christmas?

"I. Tried." Snape enunciated the words clearly for the class, rolling them over his tongue as though they had no meaning for him. Then his black orbs grew narrow and piercing…more piercing…and he drawled, "Mr. Shelby, I can only thank the good Lord that I do not rely upon you for protection. Alas, I fear for your family, and the children you may one day have if you manage to stumble through life long enough to procreate. One can always hope."

He waved his hand dismissively through the rapidly dispersing mist. "Two feet of parchment on the dangers of being unprepared. May I also request the honour of your presence in detention tonight, where you will learn to produce a patronus if I have to choke it out of you?"

Shelby swallowed and slipped down in his seat. He thought it prudent not to answer the sarcastic, obviously rhetorical question, lest he earn himself more trouble. The rest of the class, torn between tittering and pretending to be statues, wisely chose the statue option. Hovering, floating, prancing, and crawling about the room were a wide variety of patronuses ranging from a dove to a sea lion to a camel. Severus looked them over, nodded curtly, and stalked to the front of the room.

He'd just opened his mouth to speak when he heard a knock on the door. Had he not immediately recognized the slightly metallic thudding on the wood as the sound of Lucius' blasted pimp cane, he'd have sworn aloud. Lucius wouldn't show up here in the middle of the day unless it was something important.

"Class dismissed." He went to the door to beckon Lucius inside as the students filed out, each one taking note of the unexpected visitor. When they'd all gone, he closed the door, warded it out of habit, and turned to his friend. "What's wrong?"

Lucius shook his head somberly. "I'm hoping you can tell me that nothing is wrong." He dropped into the nearest seat and pulled Sunny's letter from his pocket.

Severus read it over twice to make sure he'd not missed anything. He looked at his friend and gave a small shrug. "And?"

"Sunny described the diary to me, Severus. I think you can guess what it looks like. She also said Therese hasn't been writing in it, only _reading_ it, and she is acting very peculiar." Not bothering to hide his anxiety, he waited for Snape's reply.

As much as Snape wanted to tell him to piss off, it was just a silly diary of a silly girl, the gnawing in his gut told him otherwise. Lucius had dire suspicions or he would not have come, and he was right to be concerned. If—how it could be escaped him—but if this diary was one of the lovely little Voldemort set, doing nothing was not an alternative. "I checked my—Tom's diaries today, they are all accounted for. Nonetheless, we can't be too careful. Follow me."

Snape led the way to the Hufflepuff common room, where he was permitted in without need of a password. Once inside, Lucius gaped in astonishment. He'd never really wondered what it looked like in here, but now that he was here, it was…cramped. Yellow and black decorated the walls of a strangely round room, furnished with oddly round furniture. Some may find it cozy, but it gave him the feeling of having been swallowed by a bumblebee. A few pupils in the room stared unabashedly at the intruders.

"Therese Hawbecker's room," Severus murmured into the air. Or so Lucius thought, till he saw the ghost of the Fat Friar behind him. The ghost led them to a room with—surprise—a large round door. They went in and Severus quietly closed the door. "_Accio_ my diary." Nothing happened, though a flush crept over his face at the bemused, slightly taken aback look Lucius was giving him. He scowled. "_Accio_ Tom's diary."

The wee brown journal jumped out of a trunk and flew into his hand. He stared at it in horror, his breath failing him. It was true, there was another! He gingerly opened the first page, glanced at the writing, and slammed it shut, his eyes as round as the room. "It's his. We need to get to my office."

"If you take it, she'll find out," Lucius objected. "She may do something terrible while looking for it."

"Then perhaps we should incarcerate her as you did me," Snape spat back. Where had that animosity come from? It had been necessary, he understood that. Damn it, it was the book. Just holding it made his fingers itch to rip it open and read it.

"Maybe we ought to talk to the other teachers," Lucius proposed. Merlin, what the hell was wrong with Snape? He hadn't seen him look this antsy since—shit! Since he'd read the diaries himself! "Can't we charm it like the ones you read and then figure out what to do…not in here?"

"Good idea," Snape muttered. He thrust the thing into Lucius' hand. "You know the charm, go ahead." He had already fled for the door. "I'll call an emergency meeting with Minerva. I don't want anyone else knowing about…"

He didn't need to finish. He didn't want the teachers to know he'd been turning into Tom Riddle, and who could blame him? Up to now no one at the school knew about it, not counting Aline and Bayly. He hated to tell Minerva, but what choice did he have at this point? Something had to be done, and quickly. And to be perfectly honest, it scared the daylights out of him to think of what was now happening to an innocent little girl.


	59. Defense Against the Dark Arts 101

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 59 (Defense Against the Dark Arts 101)

(A/N: Christine Marie, I regret that I cannot respond to your review, as your messaging is off. Thank you just the same!)

**November 10, 1970**

"On uzhe zdes'?"(_Is he here yet?_) Karkaroff paced in agitation up and down in front of the tiny wooden cabin, his breath coming in puffs of white in the frigid air. He pulled his bearskin cloak tighter about himself. He'd already worn a mushy rut into the snow piled in front of the structure.

Dolohov flicked his cigarette into the snow, listening to the hiss as it died. He liked that sound almost as much as he liked the sound of a human's last tortured breath. "Ya chto, na spine ego nesu? Kogda priidet , togda i budet!" (_Do you think I'm carrying him on my back? He'll be here when he gets here._)

"A esli etot ubezhit? Nas nakazhut!" (_What if it escapes? We'll be punished!_) Karkaroff exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch and tenseness.

"Da uspokoisya ti, Karkarov! Mi okazivaem Temnomy Lordu bolshuyu uslusgu. On budet ochen' nami dovolen!" (_Calm down, Karkaroff! We're doing the dark lord a huge favour. He'll be very pleased with us._) He slapped at his pockets, searching for where he'd put his pack of smokes.

"On ochen silnii!" (_It's very strong_) countered the other. "Dazhe esli on ne mozhet ubezhat pri svete dnya, uzhe pochti sumerki. Esli Lord Voldemort do etogo ne priidet..." (_Even if it can't escape in the daylight, it's nearly dusk. If Lord Voldemort doesn't come before that…_)

"If I don't come, what?" said a voice not related to either of the men.

Both of the other wizards jumped in place, for they'd not heard the dark lord apparate silently behind them. Not for the first time, Dolohov looked at the older man with incredulous reverence—he understood Russian? Was there anything Lord Voldemort couldn't do? Voldemort, wrapped in a heavy cloak not unlike Karkaroff's, walked right up to the cabin and peered in between two slats. His heart swelled with glee.

Inside he noted the vampire cowering in a corner to avoid any hint of light striking him. It went without saying that his followers had utilized various protective spells to hold the flimsy shack together against the struggles of the mighty creature, and to prevent it escaping out a window or the lone door. Karkaroff was right, come nightfall it would endeavor to be free, and being a magical creature it just may be able to thwart some of the wards.

"How did you capture him?" asked Voldemort, genuinely curious.

"We tricked him," gloated Dolohov, barely able to hold back a guffaw. "Last night Karkaroff sliced me on the arm to get the smell of blood wafting in the air. This area is known for having a lot of vampires, and it was only a matter of time before one caught my scent. I was in the cabin, waiting; when he came in, I apparated out and we warded the place with everything we could think of."

"Well done," said Voldemort, to the delight of his minions. "And now, for the fun part."

Dolohov edged up to the wall beside his master. "We didn't do anything to him…we know you wanted to be here for that." His eyes glistened with eagerness, an unspoken request.

Lord Voldemort turned his head slightly, then nodded magnanimously only once. "You may each have a turn. I suspect our known curses will have no effect, but it wouldn't hurt—not _us_, anyway—to give it a shot."

As one they twisted round to see Karkaroff, who'd backed up against a tree. The man stared briefly before announcing in a heavy accent, "My lord, I am honoured that you would permit me this, but…if I may, I would like to leave this place." His gaze flicked here and there as if expecting more vampires at any moment.

"Suit yourself, Karkaroff. You're only cheating yourself." Voldemort waved a dismissive hand at him, then began to dismantle the wards. Already Karkaroff was gone.

As the last ward drifted into the air in a ring of purple fog, Voldemort's jaw hardened. He motioned for Dolohov to attend the door. As soon as the man flung it open, the dark lord cast a curse that lit up the area and shook the structure with its very power. He then casually walked in, with Dolohov on his heels, to find the vampire encased in a ring of steel bars struck into the earth. They took up nearly the whole area of the cabin, allowing the vampire to move fairly freely about within. He stalked back and forth glaring at the wizards and hissing at them, his fangs bared; he paused to shake the bars, only to discover they'd been too securely set to move.

"Where shall we start?" mused the dark lord. "The basics are tried and true for humans, but killing vampires is quite the dilemma. Large quantities of holy water…don't carry that around, do we?" He burst out laughing, accompanied by Dolohov.

"A wooden stake," suggested the minion. "We could fire one at him."

"Not a bad idea," said Voldemort. "Go ahead."

Dolohov stepped up, aimed, and cast his spell. A sharp sliver of wood flew at the vampire, but the creature was too nimble, and it missed by several feet. Disgruntled at being thwarted, Dolohov tried numerous times in succession, each time falling far short of his mark and becoming increasingly irritated. "Damn you, stand still!"

Voldemort delivered a withering stare at his follower. "You really think you can just ask them to stand there and be murdered?" When he received no reply except a sullen pout, he said, "I fear _incendio_ would come to the same end. He's too fast to allow himself to be struck full on. Even if you manage to nick him with it, he'd likely put out the fire and fly off." So much for stakes and fire.

"How about garlic?" asked Dolohov hopefully.

"Aside from the fact that it only repels them, not kills them, I can think of various things wrong with that scenario." He stood silently, thinking. The same applied to crucifixes. Only beheading and sunlight were left, and although they knew many ways to sever limbs and slice flesh, the same blasted principle applied: vampires were too quick to let the spells hit them. He hadn't counted on that when he'd been planning this.

"Master? Have you an idea?"

Voldemort backed out of the room, casting spells to strengthen the prisoner's cage and to create a bubble of silence round it lest he cry out to his fellow vampires. When he got outside, he put up a disillusion charm to hide the cabin from muggle eyes, and with any luck from vampire eyes. "I need to think. Take me to your lodging. Tomorrow we shall return and try again."

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Voldemort looked at the vampire as he spoke, though he knew the creature probably didn't understand a word he said. "You think you've beaten us because traditional methods adapted to wizardry don't work? I shall defeat you, as I learned to dispose of werewolves with a silver spell I created myself."

"You did, master?" Dolohov asked, impressed all over again.

"Would I say it if I hadn't?" snapped the dark lord in return.

He'd spent years on research projects dedicated to protecting himself from dangerous beings, and to date had only succeeded in creating that single spell of his own that was effective on the magical beasts. Capturing such dangerous creatures was hard enough, but the agony of curse after curse falling short nearly brought him to frustrated tears, though he'd never let his minions see it, of course. Last night he'd gone over in his mind the one option left to him: sunlight kills vampires. He'd spent the better part of the day practicing and refining the spell until he was relatively certain it would be effective. He must not be unsuccessful in producing this curse, he could not fail!

He lifted his wand and pointed it at the vampire. "_Sonneliht_."

As was to be expected, the vampire merely moved out of the way as silently and rapidly as a specter. Enough was enough. Voldemort was tired of playing. He whispered to Dolohov, and the next instant the two of them were shooting _incarcerous_ at cross angles in the cell, over and over till one of them hit the vampire; instantly thick ropes wound round the being, leaving him bound on the floor, howling in fury. A split second later the ropes became chains.

Voldemort stepped close to the bars, musing aloud for Dolohov's benefit. "I realize that binding him is unsportsmanlike, however I must know if this curse is effectual. Whereas the stake must penetrate the heart to be effective, I believe this will work if it hits the tiniest piece of the creature."

He raised the wand once more, deliberately aiming at the vampire's hand. "_Sonneliht_ _beth_."

The vampire screamed as the curse hit him, and he writhed violently on the floor. At first the wizards saw no real reason for his distress, except a blistering of the hand. Soon it became quite clear that the curse had spread throughout the vampire's body, his skin erupting in huge blisters and red burns that quickly turned to black. Within moments his body shuddered vehemently, turned an ashen grey of pitted, wrinkled skin, and crumbled to the floor in a pile of dust scattered amidst the clothing left behind.

Dolohov whooped his excitement. "You did it, my lord! You've invented a spell to kill them!"

"Indeed," answered the dark lord demurely, then countered it with, "Had you any doubts?"

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_November 11, 1970_

_ What can I say? I am too incredible for words. Today I killed the vampire captured by Dolohov and Karkaroff. When it was displayed that vampires are too __swift to be killed by a spell requiring precision, it was a skip and a jump to come to the conclusion that I needed a curse that would spread—like sunlight spreads over the meadow. And so it was. All that is necessary is to graze the creature, and the spell does the rest. It was glorious to behold, truly marvelous. _

_ Strange to think that at one time I'd considered becoming a vampire myself, finding one who'd convert me, so that I might live forever. However, since I have horcruxes that is no longer necessary—and I was repelled to find that wizards who become vampires lose their magical ability. How appalling. Life wouldn't be worth living without magic._

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**January 8, 2001**

The silence in the room was so still, so frosty, one might expect puffs of steam coming from the occupants' mouths. Minerva McGonagall, who'd been bracing herself, white knuckled, on the desk as the convoluted, unprecedented story unfolded, had to swing round and seat herself lest she come crashing to the floor. She gawped at Snape; her head swiveled to each member in the room—Aline, Bayly, Lucius, Dumbledore's portrait, and Salazar Slytherin, who was currently sharing his frame. She detected nothing to indicate this was an extremely poorly executed prank, which could only mean those involved were serious. It made her shudder.

Clearing her throat, she tossed her head a touch. "Severus Snape, are you telling me—you expect me to believe you were not here at the school's opening this year because you were…I can scarcely force myself to say this…_Tom Riddle_?"

Severus awkwardly ducked his head in a rare show of embarrassment. "That adequately summarizes it, Minerva." Using his wand, he performed a complex series of slashes and jabs, and his desk unlocked with a click that resounded in the quiet room. Reaching in, he pulled out the stack of diaries and laid them on top of the desk. Notably no one made any attempt to touch them.

"But you're back to yourself now," she stated by way of verification, though she'd heard him say that very thing not two minutes ago.

"Yes. The countercurse Albus and Salazar invented was quite effective." He gave an exasperated sigh. How many times must he beat that dead horse?

The old witch gestured toward the books. "Where did you find them?"

A mere narrowing of Lucius' eyes conveyed to Snape that he thought it unwise to reveal such information. The barest lift of Severus' lip in return told Lucius he was no fool and to kindly shut it. "That is of no consequence. It has nothing to do with Hogwarts. What is important is that one or more such diaries appear to have been left here at Hogwarts, and Therese Hawbecker is in possession of one."

Minerva had just begun standing up. She plopped down heavily once more, gasping. "You're joking!"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" said Severus calmly. "I have described to you the effect reading them had on me. I can only surmise the same is happening to Therese, and if her sister's assessment is correct, she is not behaving like herself."

Here Dumbledore finally stopped shuffling through his candy dish long enough to speak. He looked up and fixed the Deputy Headmistress with his surprisingly untwinkling blue orbs. "Minerva, as much as I would like to tell you otherwise, this is a very grave situation. We are all gathered here to determine what to do with the girl while she…what is that muggle word for curing an addiction…detoxes."

"Don't forget, Albus, that the child isn't merely addicted; her brain has actually been physically changing into that of Tom Riddle," piped up Salazar, right before remembering he'd be the one to blame for that, as he'd been the one to supply Tom with the curse in the first place. "I'm sorry I didn't see this happening. In retrospect, Therese seemed a lot like Tom, but I had no idea…I was just happy to have company, someone to talk to."

"It's not your fault, Salazar," Aline said, which seemed to help a little. "You didn't give her the diary, and you did work with Albus to come up with the charm that cured Severus."

"Thank you, Aline. You're too kind." Nonetheless, he beamed at her.

"Shouldn't we be doing something?" asked Minerva. "A potent witch like this…probably a Legilimens by now. Is she to become another dark lord?"

"She is no more powerful than she was before," Lucius said, the first time he'd spoken since they had gathered. "Her magical core is not altered by the diary. She did obtain the gift of parseltongue, which is a language and, as such, can be learned."

"He's right," confirmed Severus, nodding. "I speak parseltongue for the same reason. I did not gain any supplementary magic or power while under the influence of the diaries, so it is impossible that she has become a Legilimens. That has to do with inherent magical attributes, which cannot be transferred."

"Severus—and I must assume Therese as well—gained insight about Tom, and knowledge that Tom possessed at the point in time when he wrote any specific diary. Hence, she may have learned additional spells, but that is the extent of her advancement," Dumbledore said in a concise encapsulation. Then he offered his dish to Salazar, who shook his head.

"There is a consolation here," Aline suggested. "Severus saw the date on the first page; it's a diary from when Tom was a first year. He wasn't nearly as evil then, nor did he know very much beyond those his age. At least she doesn't have diaries from when he was grown, like Severus has."

"It probably encompasses two years," Severus replied to the group. "The rest of the school diaries follow this pattern. That means Tom was thirteen when this one ended."

He didn't feel it necessary to mention that Tom's seventh year diary contained entries from when the young man worked for Borgin and Burkes, before he disappeared from sight. The final diary in Snape's possession consisted of entries primarily from the 1970's, when Voldemort had been at the height of his power in the wizarding world; it contained a few entries from after he'd regained a body, till the time he died for good. Were there more diaries, spanning the time between 1950-1970? He fervently prayed not.

Dumbledore interjected with, "We here in this room are the only ones at the school—Mr. Malfoy excepted, and I'm not entirely sure why you _are_ here, Lucius—who know what is going on. Even the poor child doesn't have a clue what is happening to her."

"Yes, she does." All eyes turned to Snape. If he looked any more somber, he'd be positively frightening. His speech, measured and solemn, carried a heavy weight of truth. "I speak from experience. She understands that she is being crowded to the far recesses of her own mind as Tom becomes stronger and more voracious. However, she is powerless to stop it, and the feeling of helplessness and vulnerability is every bit as terrifying as the process itself. This is compounded by the inability to desist from reading the diary, though I can't be certain she has placed it as the reason for her situation."

From his position near the wall where the pensieve was kept, Bayly said quietly, "I think the overwhelming consideration in everyone's mind is what do we do with Therese? I realize this is a delicate situation, she's not a grown man like Professor Snape, and we can't simply hide her behind bars."

"It is too cruel to subject the girl to," Lucius admitted.

"Didn't seem too cruel when you did it to me," Snape snapped back bitterly. He ignored the hurt look in his friend's face. "Nonetheless, her parents would never permit it, and the other children would wonder where she'd gone."

"I agree," Minerva announced, nodding. "We've got to find another option. How about sending her home to her parents?"

"They're not equipped to deal with this, to watch her day and night, to be callous if need be," said Aline, shaking her head. "They'd be prime candidates for Tom's manipulation." She hadn't forgotten how formidable and twisted Tom could be in his desire to get what he wanted.

"We could hand her over to the Ministry and let them deal with her," suggested Dumbledore. He was met with a silent chorus of chilly expressions.

"Albus, I would never hand one of our children to those—those bumbling buffoons!" Minerva exclaimed. A light pink flush tinged her cheeks. "You saw what they did with Sirius Black. You saw what they would have done to Severus. No, it is unacceptable."

There was a long pause while the rest tried to think up new ideas. When no one else came forward, Lucius drawled, "Well, we can't let her go free." With a glance at Dumbledore's portrait, he amended, "You can't let her walk free among the other students. It's far too dangerous. Even though I've charmed the diary with Dumbledore's countercurse, until she gets well she is a threat to the rest."

"Even if we had the ghosts stalk her at all hours, Lucius is right," Severus conceded, with a brief nod in his direction, accompanied by the tiniest of smiles that Lucius recognized as his concession that he'd been an arse earlier.

From the portrait on the wall, Salazar stirred, shifting in excitement. "I have an idea of how to sequester her. I know what we can do!"

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"Professor? Professor Snape?"

Liam Shelby stepped into the darkened classroom, glancing about warily. He didn't exactly anticipate that the older wizard might be hiding in the shadows to scare him, but he wouldn't put it past the overgrown bat, either. The teacher had a sadistic streak, he was certain. If word of mouth was true, he hated Gryffindors. Shelby inched his way in, wand in hand, and cast a charm to light the torches. That was better. No Snape in sight…not a good thing. He'd been given detention tonight, right? So where was the professor? Probably lurking about trying to find something else to punish him for.

He took his seat to wait. After ten minutes of looking over his shoulder back at the door, he hurried to the front of the room and stood with his back to the wall, facing the door. Now no one could sneak up on him. At last he figured he'd best utilize his time wisely and try to perform that blasted patronus charm before Snape arrived and throttled him as promised.

He lifted his wand, aimed it into the air, and said, "_Expecto patronum_." Nothing, not even the mist he'd managed in class.

Mere seconds later, a white raven—or rather, a raven patronus—flew in and sat on the nearest table, preening its feathers. Bayly walked in smiling. "Hello, Liam. Professor Snape is otherwise engaged. He sent me to tutor you."

Shelby pointed at the raven. "That's your patronus?"

"Yes."

Shelby grinned. "You were Ravenclaw, weren't you?"

Bayly paused a moment. He'd never thought about it, never connected the two. He'd learned to make his patronus at Durmstrang, and when he'd transferred to Hogwarts and been randomly separated into Ravenclaw in his final year, he'd had no call to make a patronus. Was it possible, despite not being as sharp-witted as the other kids in his House, that he'd truly belonged there after all? Professor Snape seemed to think so. And so did the Sorting Hat, which had given him the Life Water and Death Water after he'd correctly answered the riddle.

"Yes, I was," he said finally. He strode across the room, then leaned on the edge of the front table facing the boy. "I hear you've had over a month to practice creating a patronus, and you're the only one in the class who hasn't achieved it. I've had you in my Potions class, I know you aren't slow, so maybe you can tell me what the problem is."

Shelby shrugged and mumbled, "I don't know."

"I think you do," insisted Bayly. He twirled his wand lazily in his fingers.

A long pause. "Well, Sn—Professor Snape said we're supposed to think of something happy, yeah? I can't."

"Why not?"

Shelby fidgeted against the wall, looking everywhere but at Bayly. Once he started, the words fell from his mouth unbidden. "My mum and dad, they're always fighting. Now they're getting a divorce. My older sister ran off and is living with some bloke…" Tears started in the corners of his eyes, and he bit down on his lower lip.

"That can make it hard," Bayly said softly. "I'm sorry things are rough for you. Do you have contact with your sister?"

The boy nodded, dropping his head. "She comes to see me now and again. I'm just afraid—" He'd heard what Professor Young went through with his own dad, the evil Death Eater Dolohov, and it was far worse than Liam could ever imagine. He felt like a baby even mentioning his trivial-by-comparison troubles. "You don't wanna hear this."

"Yes, I do."

"I'm just afraid she'll forget about me and I won't have anybody, you know?" Tears coursed down his cheeks, yet he maintained composure. "I don't wanna be here, I'm tired of trying to do stuff I can't."

"Believe me, I know how you feel. When I first came here, I felt very out of place in Ravenclaw. I couldn't even answer the riddles to get into my own House." He shook his head ruefully. "But that's why you're here, to learn. We don't expect you to be able to do everything perfectly."

"Professor Snape does," retorted the youth.

Bayly shook his head again, this time accompanied by a grin. "He isn't nearly as fearsome as he comes off, but don't tell him I said so! He wants you to do well. As for your sister, it sounds like you two have a good relationship. I don't think she wants to lose you any more than you want to lose her. I'm not a counselor or anything, but if she was my sister, I'd tell her what you told me."

Shelby glanced up at Bayly, shrugging again. The flickering torches made his face gruesome. "Won't she think I'm a ponce?"

"Not if she loves you," answered Bayly. "On that note, try thinking of a time when you and your sister were together, when you were happy. Focus on it." He waited a few moments while Liam held his eyes shut. When he saw the hint of a smile forming, he said, "Now try it."

The boy raised his wand, still keeping his eyes shut. "_Expecto patronum_!" A silvery white mist shot from his wand, wriggled through the air, and coalesced into a fat Labrador puppy that landed on the table beside Bayly's raven. It ran in circles and barked soundlessly.

Liam opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. "I did it!" He sidled up to the table to examine the creature. "It's so cute."

"I knew you could do it," Bayly said, smiling along with him. He almost reached out a hand to pet the patronus; it really was a cute puppy. "Did Professor Snape tell you that once you become proficient in creating the patronus, you won't need to even think happy thoughts again? It becomes second nature to produce one when needed."

"No, I didn't know that. Can I try it again?"

"Sure. Be my guest." Bayly eased himself up onto the table, making himself comfortable for the long haul. His mentor would be pleased that his pupil had finally begun to master his task…and he'd be pleased that Bayly had been helping him. It always gave him a warm sensation in his chest to think his 'dad' would be proud of him.

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**January 9, 2001**

It was a nice night for January—clear, brisk, a light wind. Not that Mateo minded the icy air, since vampires were perpetually cold and impervious to it. He liked guard duty on nights like this, when he could sit high in a tree and gaze out over the territory, illuminated by the full moon. It was calming.

"Mateo," a sensuous voice whispered in his ear.

He turned to his wife, nuzzling her lips on his neck. Lord, she was beautiful, and he never got over staring at her perfect face, her long, wavy dark hair, her deep, brown eyes that glinted in the moonlight. She was like a negative of himself—short, golden blond hair, pale blue eyes…then again, what was that they said? Opposites attract? It was true, in his case at least.

"Querida, debemos de estar listos," (_Darling, we should be on guard_) he murmured back. She was getting him excited, and that wasn't good, not now, not on guard duty. Yadiro really frowned on his _sangristas_ not taking their duties seriously.

Tonia stuck out her lower lip playfully. "No quieres estar conmigo?" (_Don't you want to be with me?_)

"Siempre," _(Always_) Mateo replied honestly. Nonetheless, he had a job to do; she was distracting him. "Pero quieres enojarse a Diro?" (_But do you want to get Diro angry?_)

"Claro que no," (_Of course not_) she answered, sitting up and moving back from him. Yadiro had been very good to her, and she wouldn't repay his kindness with sloth. She pointed to a tree in the distance, which for human eyes might seem very far away; to a vampire, it was a mere minute's flight. "Me voy a ese arbol. Te veo pronto." (_I'm going over to that tree. I'll see you soon._) She kissed him heartily once, and leapt off the branch into the air.

Mateo watched her sail over the wood, then turned his attention back to the task at hand. His gaze shifted to the ground, where most all threats tended to come from. Intently he scanned the area, searching for unauthorized movement, something out of place. He almost wished for something, just to break the monotony; he regretted the subversive thought immediately when an earsplitting cry rang out—the call of one vampire to another, warning. He bolted upright, listening. Which direction had it come from?

Another shrill cry followed, and Mateo's sharp ears picked up the distressing, frightening grunts and growls that signaled what they'd all come to dread: werewolves. In a heartbeat (had his heart actually beat) he was in the air flying toward the commotion, along with several guards posted in stations nearby. They congregated half a mile away, not far from the entrance to the underground mansion where they lived.

Hovering above the ground, a male vampire with long black hair waved at them. "I saw six, headed that way!" shouted Esteban in Spanish, gesturing emphatically to the west. As one the group veered. They spread out as they flew into the wood, all eyes hunting their enemy who'd now become their prey.

Mateo flew up behind a creature running on all fours. It reared up and spun round as if waiting for him, and he barely managed to pull up before running headlong into its gaping jaws. His boot clipped it in the snout and it howled. Taking a quick look about, Mateo landed a few meters from the animal, which growled at him, its saliva dripping like foam from its mouth.

He spread his legs for stability as Tonia had taught him when giving him an on-the-spot lesson in killing werewolves, though he admittedly had had very little practice since then. He'd really hoped it wouldn't come to this, even after the last onslaught months ago, when the cult had been attacked by a group of them. He'd begun to think it had been an anomaly, a fluke, and that it wouldn't happen again, yet here it was.

The beast charged him, its agility nearly matching his own. Tempted as he was to flee the hideous beast, he stood his ground, and when it leapt into the air to sink its teeth into his shoulder, he snatched its head in both hands, burying his fingers in the thick fur. He twisted violently, yanking the werewolf in a circle and crashing it against a tree. Okay, Tonia hadn't taught him that part; in fact, she'd chide him about not getting to the point already. Grimacing at the remembrance of the nasty taste of werewolf blood, he bared his fangs and ripped them across the beast's neck, severing its jugular—and as luck had it, its carotids as well. Blood spurted into his face as he pulled away.

Gagging, he dropped the animal and staggered off a few steps. In a clearing nearby, he saw Marisol tangling with a werewolf, and further on Perla and Santos had ganged up on one. Apparently none of them had benefitted from Tonia's expertise any more than he had, he thought wryly. He did a fast turn to see where everyone was, but three of the guards seemed unaccounted for. His stomach jumped to think they may have been injured or—no, he mustn't think that way!

He zipped into the air for another look around. There to the right were the aforementioned three _sangristas_, all now beating on a single werewolf, which wasn't moving a hair. To the left he saw nothing. Straight ahead, partially blocked by a swath of trees, he viewed Tonia with at least two carcasses in her immediate vicinity, and he swelled with pride. Behind him he heard a rustling and swung rapidly. He'd anticipated one of his men, for he didn't smell one of the disgusting creatures…then again, with werewolf blood all over him, and fur on his clothing, he was lucky he could smell anything at all.

He may not be a born werewolf killer, but he wasn't stupid, either. He'd heard a sound, an unfamiliar sound not associated with any of the small animals that lived in the wood. Where Esteban, Bianca, and Adan were, he didn't know, but he couldn't let it escape. Stilling himself, floating high over the wood, he forced himself to shut out the rest of the noise and listen. It was moving away, probably fleeing. He followed from above, not making a peep. If it was returning to its nest, there may be others there; he'd just as soon not face more than one at a time.

It bounded through the wood into the large meadow where Yadiro's mansion had stood when he was a human, before the people had tried to burn him to the ground with it upon discovering he'd been bitten, changed. Mateo was set to pounce on the beast when a thought struck him: as a rule, these vampires preferred to live and let live, and for centuries the werewolves had been tolerated as long as they kept the peace. However, being notoriously treacherous due to mental instability during their metamorphosis, they'd broken that peace often enough for Yadiro to conclude that werewolves could not be trusted, and he'd banished them from his territory. For many years the werewolves had stayed out of Buitrago territory, especially after Tonia had moved in—she, the renowned werewolf slayer. What had brought them back in the face of sure battle, sure death?

There was only one way to find that out, and that was to capture one of the grotesque things. Mateo sent out another piercing cry, this one in a series of echo-like shrieks, to indicate he was—for lack of a better term—taking roll call. Immediately he heard Tonia's response, followed by Marisol, Perla, and Santos. The werewolf glanced up at him, and stopped in its tracks. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was…smiling. And not a nice smile. Then he heard Esteban's call, very close by. Bianca and Adan screeched back, though they were too distant for his purpose at this moment—but they were alive, and for that he was glad.

"Esteban, come here! We need to capture it!" he shouted.

From the tree line Esteban dipped down to meet with him, where the two hovered briefly while Mateo explained what he had in mind. Below, the werewolf seemed to decide that two against one wasn't such fun odds, and had bolted again. Mateo sailed faster than it could run, cutting it off when he dropped down in front of it at the same moment Esteban landed behind. With a tremendous whack, Esteban clobbered the beast in the head so hard that, had it still been human, it likely would have taken the head right off. It stunned the werewolf long enough for the two to pick it up and carry it to the ruins of the mansion, where heavy chains lay wound about the still-standing chimney, an ominous testament to what happens to a _sangrista_ who breaks the rules.

They lay the werewolf on the brick hearth, secured the manacles round its hands and feet as tightly as possible, in case it shrank when it resumed human form, then pulled on the chains to make sure the beast would not escape. Then they sat down to wait for the others to report in. They'd have to guard the creature till dawn, when they must of necessity hide themselves…tomorrow night, when the werewolf was once more human, they'd get some answers.


	60. Answers

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 60 (Answers)

(A/N: Super awesome video on youtube called "A Message From Severus Snape". Give it a look, it is hilarious! Props to graynavarre for telling me about it.)

**January 10, 2011**

Charlotte awoke gradually with the feeling of pain, confusion. Usually after a night like last, she felt exhausted, sick, maybe a little achy from the transformation; this was far different. She shivered uncontrollably and tried to sit up, right before noticing she was already sitting, her back braced against the bricks of an old broken chimney standing amidst the charred, rotted ruins of what must have been at one time a very large, grand home. In the wispy rays of the dawning sun, she saw what was causing her lack of mobility: her hands and feet had been shackled, the heavy chains wound about the chimney.

She shuddered again, not so much from the horror of her captivity as the cold burrowing into her bones. She tried unsuccessfully to bring her legs to her chest for a spot of warmth, for her naked flesh afforded no protection from the January chill. A vague recollection of the previous night, of being chased by the vampires, flitted through her mind, and her stomach flipped in raw, unadulterated fear. Yes, that was why she'd come, wasn't it? But she was supposed to do the chasing, the killing. Where were the others? If the vampires had caught her, why was she still alive?

Her breath coming out in short, ragged puffs of steam, she looked up into the distance where she heard the sound of feet crunching in the snow. Several vampires—no, humans. It was daylight now, they couldn't be vampires!

"Help! Help me!" she shrieked, rattling the chains piteously.

The approaching group didn't acknowledge her shouting, though they did continue on course straight for her. Even as they got very close, none of them seemed the slightest bit curious as to how she'd come into this predicament, no one asked her a thing. They merely spoke in curt Spanish phrases as they encircled her; one of the men bent down, drew a key from his pocket, and unlocked the manacles. Before Charlotte could gush her thanks, two other men grasped her by the arms, hauled her to her feet, and began dragging her back the way they'd come.

"Please let me go," she pleaded, struggling futilely. The men were young and strong, one alone could overpower her. What did they intend? Bile rose in her throat. She turned to a young female and said, "Don't let them do this! Please, don't let them hurt me."

The woman—barely more than a girl, really—looked askance at the captive. "Callate. No te entiendo." (_Shut up. I don't understand you_.)

All at once a realization struck: none of them were speaking English…not surprising, since they were in Spain. Maybe they didn't know what she was saying any more than she comprehended them. Finding it useless to try communicating, she traipsed along the frozen, hard ground, heart pounding, into the wood. Twigs snapped underfoot, yet she was already too cold to feel it, or the rocks that tore at her skin, leaving tinges of blood in the snow.

It wasn't long till they'd come to—well, nowhere actually. It seemed exactly like every other part of this blasted wood. The girl bent down, and when she did her coat slid aside, revealing a long, serrated blade in her belt. Unless Charlotte was mistaken, and she never was where this particular item was concerned, the blade was forged from silver.

The girl rapped on the ground, only it sounded surprisingly like wood. _Knock knock knock_. Pause. _Knock knock_. Pause. _Knock_. There was the sound of a bolt or barricade sliding away, and the girl lifted a hatch door by a handle that until now Charlotte hadn't even seen. She stepped aside to let the men and prisoner through. The young men dragged Charlotte unceremoniously down a flight of stone steps carved into the very rock, into a long chamber lit by torches along the walls and full of…oh, my God…vampires.

Charlotte's eyes grew round and she tried to back off. They'd brought her here to be eaten, mauled at the very least and sucked dry by these animals! "No! Leave me alone!"

One of the men holding her gave her a shake that wobbled her head, then he threw her into a chair pulled away from the great table. Two vampires stood up and approached her, one middle aged with thinning black hair and a goatee, the other young, blond, and very handsome—or so she'd have thought if she hadn't been terrified out of her skull. Instinctively she pressed herself back in the chair.

The older vampire spoke first in a calm, yet flinty tone. "Soy Yadiro Buitrago. Que quieres aqui? Porque viniste?" (_I am Yadiro Buitrago. What do you want here? Why did you come?_)

Charlotte peered helplessly at him. "I—I don't understand." Her British accent was glaringly apparent, certainly not the accent of one who'd learned English as a second language in Spain.

The blond glanced at Buitrago, who nodded. "Who are you? We know you're a werewolf, because I helped chain you there myself last night. This is Yadiro's territory," he said, motioning toward the dark-haired _sangrista_. "It's common knowledge that werewolves stay out of this region."

For a second the captive girl said nothing, and when she did it was measured, rehearsed. She sat up the tiniest bit straighter, thrust out her jaw a bit. "I am Charlotte. We—my pack and I—attacked you last night. We discovered the previous raid was unsuccessful, so we decided to try again."

Startled at the candor, Mateo hesitated, waiting to see if Diro planned to interrogate the girl himself—and _girl_ she was. She could not have been a day over sixteen, and he doubted she was that old. Yadiro made no move to ask anything at this point, and Mateo didn't question it. If he wanted to pretend not to speak English, that was his prerogative. "How old are you?" came out before he could stop it.

"Fifteen," she said.

"Why did you attack us?"

"To punish you," she replied stiffly. She glanced about at the unfriendly faces staring at her as the blond vampire translated what was being said. "If it weren't for you, Voldemort wouldn't have sicked his werewolf Greyback on us, and a bunch of us wouldn't be dead! We wouldn't even be werewolves!"

"Explain what you mean," he demanded.

"Voldemort invited you vampires to form an alliance with him and you refused, so he went to Greyback and enlisted the werewolves to join him instead. Even after Voldemort came back from the dead or wherever he was, he was furious with you, he planned to savage the Ministry with the werewolves, and then to come here and punish you all for not helping him gain power."

Mateo nodded thoughtfully. He recalled when Voldemort had requested that the cult join him, though certainly this child didn't, as she'd not yet been born when the first wizarding war in Britain had taken place. Voldemort had been shattered, left wandering without a body for many years…till he'd undertaken some sort of Dark Arts to regain a body for himself in 1995. Mateo rapidly translated for the group, then went on.

"I fail to see what this has to do with you. You weren't around during that time," Mateo observed.

"When the dark lord got his body back, he sent Greyback to create a werewolf army by biting kids—muggle kids, they called us," Charlotte explained, tears forming in her eyes despite her anger. "He didn't want to waste magical kids, he said. Greyback and his gang raised us—"

"Out of curiosity, how many children are we talking here?" interrupted Mateo, trepidation rising in him.

"Why should I tell you that?" Charlotte inquired defiantly. It had only now occurred to her that the vampires hadn't bothered to hide the location of the entrance from her, and that could only mean one thing—she was not expected to leave this place alive.

Mateo made another gesture at the mean-looking vampire who'd initially spoken to her. "Because he can be very cruel if need be. This is his family, and he will destroy anyone striving to harm them. But I should warn you—he'll likely torture you first. Pull your arms out of their sockets, beat you bloody, yank your hair out…stuff like that. Then again, those are things he does to the ones he loves to keep them in line. I shudder to think what he might do to you." He allowed the tiniest of grins, enough to show a hint of fang to remind the child she was not safe here, not in the least.

The human girl began to tremble, perhaps partly from cold, certainly from fear. No one had offered her anything to cover herself, and she'd not dared ask. It hardly seemed prudent, given the circumstances. "You killed them…the others who came here months ago." Mateo nodded, and she went on, "And you killed the ones who came last night."

"Yes, all dead," he confirmed quietly. These may be his family, but those dead werewolves had been _hers_.

"That's all there were. I'm the only one left." Charlotte dropped her head as a tear slid down her cheek.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Yadiro closed the door to his study and walked to the armchair opposite the one Mateo sat in. He eased himself slowly down into it, the lines on his face testament to the struggle in his mind. "There are more of them," he said finally.

"I know," Mateo answered, inspecting his fingernails to keep from having to look at Yadiro. He didn't want to have this conversation, not now, not after what they'd learned from the human. Those werewolves they'd slaughtered six months ago, and the ones last night—they'd been _children_, none over sixteen! And if the girl was to be believed, some as young as eleven or twelve!

"We have to find out, Mateo," Yadiro pressed. He tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk in a drumming pattern. "Hypnosis will tell us everything we need to know."

Mateo couldn't even gather the energy to nod. He felt numb. He'd killed werewolves, even other vampires when necessary, but never children. It was just…wrong. Once they knew how many more werewolves there were, and where to find them, Yadiro would send his own to eliminate the threat. It was the right thing to do to protect the cult, but was it the _right thing_?

"They don't understand what they're doing, Diro. They want us to suffer because they think we're the reason _they_ suffer. They were bitten to form an army to get revenge on us, their lives as normal people were stolen from them. Voldemort certainly told them it was our fault."

"Do you think I can't grasp that?" Yadiro shot back. "I'm not heartless, but nor am I foolish."

It hardly mattered the reason for the attacks, only that the attacks occurred and his _sangristas_ were in danger. Why couldn't Mateo get that? Yes, the werewolves were immature children, they needed a purpose in their lives now that Voldemort was dead…what better way to vent their fury than by destroying those they held responsible for their fate? It didn't matter! Yadiro would never allow them to harm his own, pure and simple.

"It will be done," he said in a steely tone.

"Let me do it, then," Mateo implored softly. "I'll find out whatever you want, but promise we won't go murder them wholesale unless there is no other way."

"That's reasonable, I suppose," agreed the leader.

Buitrago waited in his study. He trusted Mateo to do his job, and to do it well, regardless of his personal sentiments. It wouldn't take long, of that he was certain, though he opened a book in hopes of reading, but his mind was too occupied for that. He was right; after only a few minutes Mateo reappeared, ashen even for a _sangrista_. The latter stumbled across the floor and dropped into a chair, his face shielded by his hands.

"There are five more," he managed to choke out through his tortured throat. "The oldest is twelve. The youngest was bitten three years ago—he's only seven. And one of them is that girl's brother."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Work over for the day, Regulus turned the sign around on the door, hung up his scarlet robe, made sure all the aisles were free of clutter, all the materials put back in the proper places on their shelves, and everything spotless. Perfect. He strode to the back and knocked on the half-open door, then pushed it open completely.

"Everything's set, George. I'll be on my way then."

"Thanks, Reg. I'll see you tomorrow." George lounged back in his chair, bracing his hands behind his head as a sort of pillow, and a miniscule, mischievous grin graced his features. "You must really hate someone."

Regulus froze in his tracks. Gradually he spun back round. "What do you mean?" He knew he sounded guilty, and probably looked it, too, which bothered him. He'd never had the ability to lie effortlessly like Lucius, or even Sirius.

"I happen to know you've got one of my trial packs of pox powder in your pocket," George smiled. "Huh, that was alliteration."

"A little what?" asked Reg, edging to the frame to lean nonchalantly. At least that was the idea, though it came off stiff and unnatural.

"Alliteration—that's not the point." George sat upright. "Who is it? I'm not judging you, Reg. There are people I'd like to use it on myself, only they'd kind of know it came from me, and that ruins the surprise and plausible deniability."

"What makes you think I'd do such a thing?"

George shrugged. "Honestly, till now I wouldn't have. I don't imagine you fancy using it on yourself—you saw what it did to me!" That included a week of glamour charms to cover the hideous red spots all over his body and the wrenching nausea lasting two or three days. Yes, he definitely had work to do on that product before sale.

Regulus' mind was whirling. George knew he had the powder—what if he told someone? Then again, why would he? He was a prankster of the highest order. He'd consider it an homage for Reg to use one of his inventions to wreak havoc or vengeance. He grinned lopsidedly. "I've got a job to do. Let's leave it at that, okay?"

"Not a problem. Slip it in some pumpkin juice—it kills all flavour and aftertaste. Just a suggestion," George replied.

"Duly noted," Reg acknowledged with a nod. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Cheers!"

George watched him leave, his mind on someone else entirely. He walked to the front of the store and locked the door. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd like to use the pox powder on certain people, foremost being that scrawny bloke Theodore Nott. Not that he had anything against the gent himself, it was more—hell, who was he trying to kid? It was Jacinta. It was always Jacinta.

The portrait of Fred in the alcove cocked a red brow. "Got something on your mind, bro?"

George shrugged and slumped against the opposite wall, arms crossed, facing the portrait of his brother. "Just thinking of Nott. Why does he get to win Jacinta? She deserves a man like me who enjoys creating things, and enjoys life—not the son of a Death Eater."

"Ooooh, cheap shot," Fred answered, wincing.

"I don't care."

"What's brought on this sudden burst of introspection?" inquired Fred. "I thought you'd made peace with losing her forever after that unfortunate Blaise Zabini episode."

"I don't know," answered George, and he honestly didn't, which troubled him.

"It's not like you can't have half a dozen other charming, pretty witches," Fred offered. Heck, he made a game of counting the times he caught women gawking at his brother or outright flirting with him. "And you were only pursuing Jacinta because she was hard to get."

"That's not true! I really like her."

"Alright, I retract that statement. Let me amend it to say you pursued her because she is pretty and smart and fun—and hard to get." Fred smirked at his brother.

George was poised for a snarky comeback, but he couldn't quite manage it. Fred knew him as well as he knew himself, and Fred had a special insight that at times eluded even himself because he was too close to the situation. "You're full of it," he said finally.

"Let's play devil's advocate, shall we?" proposed the portrait. "What if you had won Jacinta? Mum and Dad would accept her because she's Snape's daughter, but let's be real—Snape as a father-in-law has to suck in the highest degree. Am I right?"

George gave a halfhearted shrug with one shoulder. Fred definitely was right.

"And let's not forget Mulciber, who raised her," Fred went on. He was on a roll. "You'd have two fathers-in-law breathing down your neck, neither of which would hesitate to hex your arse if you upset her. Oh, and her family friends, the dear Malfoys. Wouldn't it be super-duper to have them over now and again, just for kicks and grins?"

His brother was beginning to look a tad green in the face. "I didn't even think of that."

"And the parties she'd drag you to. Why, you'd get to see dear old Lucius, and Narcissa, and sweet, darling Draco so often—"

"You're making me sick!" George snapped. "I get it, I'm better off."

"You're welcome," said Fred.

George smirked at the portrait. "Thanks, Fred. You always did have a way of making me see things straight."

"It's a gift," sighed Fred, nodding sagely. "One of my many."

George rolled his eyes, but he laughed with his sibling. "See you tomorrow, Fred."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

All it took was a single elf paying close attention to where Miss Therese Hawbecker habitually seated herself in the Great Hall. She didn't ask why Master Headmaster Snape wanted her to poison the little human; frankly, she didn't care. Master Headmaster Snape was good to her and the other elves, and her loyalty was complete. Thus, when the food magically appeared on the Hufflepuff table for breakfast, pox powder laced the human's pumpkin juice.

Students were on their way to their first class of the day when Therese felt a grumbling, gnawing in her stomach. By the time she arrived in Potions class, she felt positively abysmal. Had she been looking in a mirror, she'd have been scared witless as well, for her face, hands, and body had sprouted the most delicious crop of red splotches.

Jonathan Avery gawked unabashedly at his friend, his mouth hanging open. "What happened to you?"

"What are you talking about?" she answered feebly. She set her book bag on the floor and sat heavily on a stool.

Jonathan waved his hand in a circle in front of her, gesticulating at her face, neck, and hands. "What's with all the spots?"

Therese glanced down at her hands, and a scream erupted unbidden. Bayly's head jerked up and he rushed toward her from his desk. After a perfunctory inspection, he declared, "Therese, we'd better get you to the infirmary. Class, I'll be back in a few minutes. In the meantime, copy the recipe on the board. Do NOT attempt to begin the potion until I return, or Headmaster Snape will deal with you himself." He grinned inwardly at the way the pupils stiffened and hurriedly reached for quills and parchment.

Once Therese reached the infirmary, Poppy took over, fussing over the girl like a mother hen. She shooed Bayly out and led Therese to the examination room, where she handed her a white robe to put on. She instructed the girl to lie on the table, where she performed a series of diagnostic tests with her wand, followed by visual scrutiny of the marks.

"Have you any other symptoms, dear?" she asked genially.

In reply, Therese leaned over the edge of the table and began to vomit. Unperturbed, Poppy simply summoned a basin and held it for the child until she was finished, then vanished the sick with her wand. She shook her head gravely.

"It's worse than I originally thought," she said.

"What is it?" asked Therese in a high, nearly hysterical voice.

"Rotia Magik Porcion," replied Poppy in a most solemn tone. "Very dangerous, I'm afraid. It's an ancient malady, one I've never personally seen, as it hasn't been reported in generations."

"What is it?" repeated Therese, eyes wide, her pale face like a painter's drape splattered with red paint. "What does it do?"

"I've no idea how you came by it, since it originates from a spore living in dark, dank places like…well, like unused dungeons rooms and such. You could have caught it anytime in the past half year, the incubation period can be as long as six months. It attacks the magical core of a witch or wizard, eating at it, consuming it. " She clucked her tongue and shook her head again.

Dark, dank places…like the dungeon room where she'd been keeping the basilisk egg, perhaps? No way on earth was Therese going to mention that! "So…if I'm not healed, I'll become a—a muggle?" The girl twisted her face. The very notion had her on the verge of heaving again.

"Oh, no, dearie. You'll be dead," said Poppy, patting the girl's head.

Therese shrieked involuntarily again and sat up. "Isn't there anything you can do?"

"Well, of course," Poppy assured her, pressing her back onto the table. "It's not contagious, so we don't need to protect others from you. In fact, we need to protect _you_ from everyone else. You'll need to be quarantined here in the infirmary for at least a month, no visitors."

"Why?"

"Oh, didn't I explain?" Poppy laughed and continued, "In your condition, you're extremely vulnerable to catching diseases from others, and that would only make your illness worse."

Poppy smiled benignly at the student. How many times over the years she'd had cause to lie to her patients while treating them, and she'd become very good at it. _This won't hurt a bit_. Yeah, right! _You'll be up and around before you know it!_ Sure you will, if a miracle strikes. When Severus had informed her about Therese's true condition, what was happening to her on account of the diary, she'd been horrified. Nonetheless, this was not Tom Riddle, it was Therese Hawbecker, and she was going to do everything in her power to make sure Therese came back to them. Severus had told her it was of utmost importance that Therese be confined, and making it her own choice seemed only natural. While Tom Riddle may not care a whit about making others ill, he desired eternal life and power—neither of which he'd have if his magic was eaten away, or if he died, so as a matter of self-preservation he'd insist on being secluded.

As she'd anticipated, Therese was nodding at her. "I'll have to stay here then. Can I have my books?"

"Yes, of course. I'll have an elf send them right up." Poppy stroked the girl's hair back once more and moved away from the bed. "I'd best get started on a list of ingredients and a formula for preparing the medicine. Professor Young or Mistress Snape can brew it for you. I'd not be able to find it in a shop, as no one stocks potions for diseases that are virtually extinct."

She waved her wand and a wall appeared between the bed at the far end of the room and the rest of the infirmary, with only a swinging door between them. "That will be your room for the next month or so. I'll enlarge it for you shortly, and I'll make sure you get the opportunity to go outside when no one else is around. Exercise and fresh air are still necessary, you know."

"But…but if someone gets sick and comes in here…" Therese said.

"Don't worry, I'll charm the wall so nothing can pass through. I'm here to protect you, and so I shall." With that, Poppy walked off to the shelves holding her books and began to scan the titles.

Therese lay back on the table, wanting to cry. At least she'd have her diary. She needed it so much, at times it almost hurt. If she looked at the bright side, she'd have plenty of time to read it, and to practice her magic—unless it had already been compromised. She turned her head away from the mediwitch as tears trickled down her cheeks into her hair.


	61. Help

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 61 (Help)

**June 15, 1939**

The last day of Tom's second year at Hogwarts. For Riddle, it was a day devoid of joy, for it meant only that he was to return to the orphanage for the summer holiday. He sat silently, broodingly for most of the trip back to King's Cross station, hearing his companions prattling on while scarcely listening. For hours scenery whizzed by his window unseen, his mind preoccupied. He hated it, he hated leaving Hogwarts! Why couldn't they let him stay for the summer? There was plenty of room, he'd not make any trouble for them. It wasn't fair!

Once they pulled up at the station at last, his compartment occupants waited for the majority of the students to leave, for Tom disliked elbowing through the throng in the narrow train corridor. When the way was clear, he levitated his trunk off the train onto the platform behind Nott and Mulciber. Claudius Lestrange, the firstie Slytherin he'd taken into his little gang after viewing the boy's potential, traipsed along after him, his trunk bumping loudly on each step as he dragged it behind him.

Nott's parents, eagerly watching the exit door, hurried forward to embrace their son and kiss his cheeks and offer profuse commentary on how much they'd missed him. Blushing yet obviously happy, he returned their sentiment before saying, "Mum, Dad, this is Tom Riddle. He's my friend. And of course you know Lewis and Claudius."

"My pleasure, ma'am, sir," Tom said stiffly, smiling.

Mr. and Mrs. Nott shook hands solemnly with Tom, though he noted the man gave Lewis Mulciber a familiar slap on the back, and Mrs. Nott pinched Lestrange's cheek, to his great discomfort. "It's nice to meet you, Tom," said the woman. "Claudius, you're getting tall."

"That happens when you grow," replied the dark haired boy in a deadpan voice.

Mulciber dragged him off to the side, growling, "Don't piss off Nott's parents. They might talk to yours soon, you know." From experience he understood that parents loved to discuss the failings of their urchins. And if those discussions happened to fall on the negative side, unpleasant consequences usually followed.

"Lewis, I saw your father a moment ago," Mr. Nott was saying, just as a stout man in his thirties broke through the mist created by the steam engine of the train. "There he is now!"

Mr. Mulciber approached his son after a brief exchange with the Notts. His fingertips rested very lightly on his son's shoulder as he sized up the boy, his first question a gruff inquiry. "Lewis, have you been good this term?"

"Yes, Dad," answered the boy automatically, nodding for emphasis. "I never even got detention or anything." Not that he'd provide such information if he _had_ been punished at school. "Mum!" He ran into the arms of a rotund woman carrying an overly large handbag, leaving his father to deal with the trunk. The witch patted his back and hugged him fiercely.

Tom stood in the midst of this love fest feeling extremely out of place. He felt himself backing up ever so slowly, only to bump into Claudius, who'd been turned round searching for his relatives.

"Sorry," he said out of habit, for he'd learned he was expected to feign remorse when he's committed some social blunder.

"I can't see my parents," Claudius responded. His voice carried a light touch of panic.

Mrs. Mulciber glanced around. "I haven't seen them at all today."

Mr. Mulciber shook his head. "Me, either."

When the Notts shook their heads, it was unanimous. Everyone seemed ill at ease, till Tom burst out, "I'll wait with him. I'm in no hurry." It seemed a good way to foster loyalty in the younger child, and he truly was in no hurry.

"Riddle, that's right nice of you," Quenby Nott said, impressed by his friend's selflessness. Being the oldest of their group, he'd have offered himself if his parents weren't evidently anxious to be gone. "I'll write…oh, that's right," he murmured. He'd forgotten owling a muggle orphanage was taboo. "Well, have a good summer."

He waved as he and his parents walked off. The Mulcibers said their goodbyes and departed with Lewis, leaving Tom and Claudius with their luggage on the platform. The younger lad sat down on his trunk, head down. "They'll be here," he said forcefully, as if Tom had contradicted him.

Riddle, clothed in his muggle togs in preparation for where he was returning to, merely seated himself upon his own trunk. Men and women, boys and girls paraded past them, greeting loved ones, hauling luggage, chattering incessantly. He and Claudius made small talk about the passersby, and about school events. For the first half hour or so, Tom presumed Claudius' parents would show up eventually, they were probably just running late. Another half hour later, he began to have serious doubts. An hour after that, when the platform was bare and the conductor headed their way, he gave in to the realization that they simply—for whatever reason—were not coming.

"Are you boys alright there?" asked the wizard. By now the steam had long dissipated and the platform was clear. No other people were in sight.

"They didn't come," Claudius choked out, and suddenly the tears he'd been holding back came pouring down his cheeks. He ducked his head and started to sob. "They forgot me!"

"Maybe there's been a problem," the conductor began, only to be cut short by the wailing child.

"No! They do it all the time," Claudius answered, struggling to master himself. "It's 'cause they don't want me, they only need an heir. I hate them! I hate them so much!"

Here Tom stepped in, directly between the crying boy and the troubled man. "It'll be okay, thanks for your concern. I'll see he gets home."

"You're a kid yourself," the man responded incredulously.

"I know how to take care of myself," Tom retorted, falling back into the insolent pattern he'd used before coming to Hogwarts. Immediately realizing that this wizard may take it upon himself to call for—Tom wasn't sure who, but someone who'd make a mess of Lestrange's life—he modified his tone. "I take the Knight Bus whenever I have my trunk; we can do it now." Tom kicked at Lestrange's foot as a sign to get a grip on himself and follow his lead. "Come on, Claudius. Let's get out on the street where we can summon the Bus."

Claudius obediently stood up, wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve. He grasped the handle of his trunk and lugged it after him, following the older boy. "You really take the Knight Bus by yourself?"

"Yes, I do," said Riddle self-importantly, pleased to see the look of respect on his comrade's face. "I'll show you how, it's easy. We'll go to your house, then I can go back to the orphanage." He was, after all, in no hurry.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_June 15, 1939_

_I thought I had it bad. Lestrange's parents didn't even show up to fetch him from the train station! I'm used to fending for myself; I don't expect anybody because I don't have anybody, but he thought they'd come and they didn't. What irresponsible trash they are. If you're going to have a child, the least you can do is look after it!_

_If I ever seek out my family, I wonder what they'll be like. My mother is dead, of course, but my father…would he be like Claudius' dad? Does he even care about me? Does he know and not care? I think that would be worse than not having them at all. _

_The more I think about love, the more I see how it destroys people. Claudius says he hates his parents, yet it's apparent he is wounded because they neglect him. Lewis is afraid of his dad, anyone with eyes can see that. But he loves his dad anyway, and I don't understand it. Nott loves his family…well, they love him, too, but they'll probably end up hurting him. It seems to always end that way, doesn't it?_

_It's far better to concentrate on what you can control, on power. Then you can make people love you if that's what you want. You can have whatever you want._

Tom/Therese lay back on the infirmary bed, her eyes glassy from reading, his/her mind still contemplating that day. Claudius was sure to become more loyal to him now, a friend willing to not only spend his afternoon waiting, but willing to accompany him safely home. A tiny niggling in the very back of the brain said it didn't matter, it was so long ago, but that was ridiculous: Tom was still a child, wasn't he? He just couldn't quite figure out why he was a girl now….

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 11, 2001**

It was so depressing Aline could have cried, and might have if Severus hadn't been right there with her. If she broke down, he'd insist this endeavor was too much for her, and refuse to help; she couldn't let that happen. All her life she'd been good at hiding her feelings…from everyone except Severus, that is. She turned her head to gaze down the barren white hall of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Incurable Wing.

"They don't believe in any sort of decoration or color, do they?" she asked. Was that a wisp of tremor in her voice? "It's so empty, so… cheerless."

"Most of the people here have nothing to be cheerful about," Severus answered, striding beside her and carefully noting the room numbers. "From what I gather, most of the patients stay in their rooms by choice or by default."

At that moment they stepped in front of the Longbottoms' room, and both of them peered inside at the same time. Alice, her unkempt, graying hair like a halo about her head, sat rocking in a chair, which sadly was not a rocking chair. She was round faced, and resembled Neville quite a lot. Frank was seated in an armchair across the room near his bed, staring into space. For all intents and purposes, he appeared catatonic.

Severus hesitated before entering. "Aline, are you sure this is what you want to do? Up to now, no one has been able to reverse their condition."

"And you don't want me to get my hopes up, is that it?" she shot back. It wasn't that he was wrong, because she essentially agreed with him. This case was deemed medically impossible. It was just that—well, all her life she'd put up with people denigrating her for her clairvoyance; she simply couldn't tolerate having her skill as a Potions Mistress called into question, especially by Severus, who knew damned well she was as capable as he was. It sounded childish and petty even in her mind, but old wounds rip easily.

As if reading her mind, and she wasn't entirely sure he hadn't, Severus squeezed her hand and replied, "Darling, your expertise is not the problem here. We've talked about this; the injury is probably too advanced to be undone."

"I have to try," she said stubbornly.

She'd vowed Jorab to do her best. Although Neville knew nothing of the couple being here, she'd like to one day look him in the eye and see the excitement that only curing his parents could bring. Noticing an orderly headed their way, she quickly shoved her husband into the room and closed the door, barely missing catching his toes. They had passes to be here as friends, not in a medical capacity.

Severus heaved a heavy breath. Wasn't it enough to have Therese on his mind? With frightening familiarity he knew what dreadful terror was living in the infirmary at this very second. Yes, his experience had been worse due to age and prior knowledge of the dark lord, but it had to be hell on the poor girl. Her situation had to take precedence, pure and simple: when it came down to it, Tom Riddle trumped Longbottoms every time. A sneer curled the corner of his mouth; it wasn't a card game, yet he felt like a player all the same, waiting for his cards to be dealt so he could determine how best to not be killed…er, beaten. He'd need to watch Therese like a hawk, and that would be much more difficult to do if he were engaged in some complex cure or other that was almost certainly doomed to failure.

"I will do what I can with Legilimency, Aline. Beyond that, I can't promise anything."

"You mean you can't promise to help me." It was not a question, nor was it accusing. Severus had other important things to attend to, and once Aline knew what was the problem, she felt confident working on her own investigating it. "I understand."

"Who are you, who are you, who are you," Alice clucked like a parrot.

"I'm Aline, and this is Severus," the witch responded, feeling the weight of depression settling again. "We're friends of Neville."

"Neville, Neville," repeated Alice, searching her mind. She smiled, reached into her pocket, and withdrew a Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper, which she held out to Aline.

Aline took the wrapper and looked at Severus, who whispered, "Neville said she gives him wrappers all the time. She can't remember who he is, but she associates him with candy and gum he brings her."

"I see." She bent down to the other woman's level and said, "Alice, my husband wants to look in your eyes, is that okay?"

"You talk funny," Alice said, and started to giggle.

"I guess I do," Aline concurred, smiling with her. She nudged Severus.

Severus knelt on one knee before the woman, holding her head in his hands very lightly. "Look in my eyes, Alice," he prompted.

Mere seconds later it was evident he'd broken into Longbottom's mind, for her expression had grown even more slack and she stared unseeing at him. Minutes passed. Aline fidgeted from one foot to the other. Severus' black orbs blinked so scarcely she'd begun to wonder if he forgot how. She'd never seen him take so long at Legilimency. What was he doing, searching every memory in her head? Then again, he may well need to in order to get a picture of the damage. By the time he finally released Alice, ten minutes had elapsed, and he looked utterly exhausted, spent.

"My God, I've never seen anything like this," he uttered in a croak. He fell back onto his bum and just sat there, blinking and regrouping.

"It's that horrible?" Aline asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"I can't make out anything," he said, turning to his wife dejectedly. "It's like a twisted jumble, a labyrinth."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the Cruciatus doesn't leave permanent damage, no matter how painful it is, right?" said Aline.

"That is my understanding," he hedged. He saw where this was going. All these years, the doctors at the hospital had claimed the Cruciatus had been what tortured these two into insanity, but he and many he'd known had been tortured by the Cruciatus without a hint of madness to show for it. And this was not merely insanity, it was physical deformation of the brain. There was more at work here, something far more insidious.

"So we have to assume there were other curses used, curses that could cause this kind of impairment to the brain," Aline continued. In her mind she was already creating a list of possibilities.

Severus nodded. "I'm sorry, Aline, I can't tell you anything you don't already recognize. I'll look into Frank's mind, but I'm sure I'll find the same mutilation. I dare say you'll be back to square one."

"No, square two—at least I've identified what it _isn't_," Aline replied. And at least she knew exactly who to approach to reach square three: the men who'd been there when the Longbottoms had been tortured.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Mortireluctagusted. Snape liked big words, and he enjoyed inventing spells…well, a simple crossover gave him an impressive word he was sure would not catch on, primarily because most people don't experience all three emotions at once: mortified, reluctant, and disgusted. Three little words that captured his emotions at the chore before him. What irked him the worst was that he'd not been sent on this errand, he'd actually assigned it _to himself_. If he could have thought of another way, or even trusted another to do this… He was still kicking himself as he stepped up the stairs to Grimmauld Place and knocked stoutly on the door.

Kreacher peered through a crack at him for a few seconds, then threw the door open wide. "Mister Snape, won't you come in." _It will piss off evil Master Sirius_. He chuckled under his breath as Snape swept by, giving him odd looks.

"I've come to speak with Harry Potter," Severus said, rather unnecessarily. Who in their right mind might believe he'd come to see Black? Then again, he wasn't entirely sure Kreacher _was_ in his right mind.

Kreacher bowed low, and lifted up with the creepiest smirk on his distorted face. "Kreacher fetches Master Harry Potter right away. Won't Mister Snape come into the kitchen for a snack?"

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

"Tea perhaps?"

"Would you be so kind as to bring Potter," Severus ground out between clenched teeth. Merely being in this hideous home again brought back a slew of unwelcome memories.

Looking faintly hurt, Kreacher flounced out of the room. Snape heard his large feet pounding on the stairs. He did a twirl in the darkish hallway; something wasn't right. Ah yes, he wasn't being screeched at for being a halfblood. Where had the portrait of Mrs. Black gone? In fact, where had that whole section of wall gone?

"That sticking charm was a real bitch…like her. I took out the wall with the portrait and gave it to Reg. She liked him," said a horribly familiar voice behind him.

Severus whirled on the spot, his wand automatically leaping into his hand, to face Sirius, who'd come from the kitchen. The latter glanced at the wand and shook his head. "I wasn't planning on wandplay."

Severus returned the wand to its wrist holster. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I do live here," Sirius answered. Without anything in common to discuss or an actual fight to sustain them, the conversation sounded terribly stilted. "You're here to see Harry, then?"

"Nothing gets by you," Severus muttered under his breath. Tempted to ask the other man to run along, he instead forced himself to be…well, _pleasant_ wasn't the word, but the closest he could come to it. "Draco tells me you're very close to Miss Greengrass. He fears he may end up as your brother-in-law." Okay, 'pleasant' definitely didn't describe it.

"Maybe," Sirius confirmed, smiling. And not an I-just-did-something-awful-to-you smirk, but a genuine, affable beam. Good grief, had he been abducted and replaced? Not that it would be a bad thing, per se, although with the way things were going, Snape would probably be called in to look for the mutt.

He examined Sirius once over, just in case. No, it truly did seem to be Black. What was his angle? Had he a snide remark or a blast to the back coming? If so, he was taking his sweet time. "Well….good for you," Severus said finally.

Never in his life would Snape have believed that the sight of Harry Potter would fill him with joy, yet here it was. Hell must be chilly, because as Harry walked into the room, Severus felt an overwhelming sense of relief. "Potter, there you are! Where have you been?"

"In the loo," Harry answered, his face a mask of questions. "What's up?"

"Yeah, Snape, what's up?" asked Sirius, falling back into his old pattern of watching the Slytherin squirm.

Severus turned a withering glare in Sirius' direction. "It's a private matter, Black." He gestured toward the parlor off the hall. "If we may?"

"Sure." Harry led the way to the parlor, and didn't mention when Snape sent up a silencing charm around the room to make sure Sirius or Kreacher didn't eavesdrop. He'd rather not stir the pot concerning the old animosities between his godfather and Snape. He faced the Potions master, lifted a brow, and waited.

"I can tell you kept your word about not telling Black about…the diary situation," Severus said, ending in a mumble. The humiliation of Sirius Black knowing he'd been turned into Tom Riddle would be too much to bear.

"I said I would," Harry answered, still wondering what this was about.

"And I thank you." Had he actually just said that? Hurriedly he added, "However, there is a severe complication. I must swear you to secrecy here as well." Harry nodded and made a motion of crossing his heart with his finger. "There are more diaries—or one, at any rate. A student at Hogwarts has somehow procured one, and the same thing is happening to her as occurred with me."

"Oh, my God," Harry whispered. "Is she alright?"

"Yes. We've got her in the infirmary under quarantine, and we've charmed the book. If all goes well, she will recover in time." Here it was, the moment of truth. _Do not choke, Snape. You can do this_. "I must ask you for another favour."

"Anything I can do to help, I'll be happy to," said Harry without hesitation.

"May I borrow that map of yours, the one of Hogwarts—"

"The Marauders Map," Harry said without thinking, then could have slapped himself in the head. He understood how sensitive Snape was to that name, the memories it brought back. "Yeah, sure, but—why?"

"I'd like to keep close track of Therese, and…and also see what name it assigns the girl," Severus replied.

"Whether the castle recognizes her as Therese or Tom Riddle, you mean."

"Yes." In point of fact, he was somewhat impressed by Potter's leap of logic there, something he'd seemed wholly incapable of during his term as a student.

"Is it alright if I bring it by the school tomorrow?" asked Harry. "I'd like to show you how to use it, and if you don't mind I'd like to help search for any other diaries that may still be at Hogwarts."

"That will be acceptable, Potter. Thank you." Merlin's britches, had he said it _again_? What was wrong with him? The bloody phrase was falling from his lips like—like something very bad, he was certain. To thank Potter twice in the space of ten minutes? Clearly he was losing his mind. "I've work to attend to. I'll see you in my office tomorrow morning then."

There, that was better, it sounded much more Headmastery. _Headmastery?_ Now he was making up words, and not clever ones! Before he could embarrass himself by—God forbid—some other horrendous act like fainting or offering to dance for the nice wizard, he fled the room, past Kreacher arguing with Sirius, and out the door.

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"Master Malfoy, yellow-headed vampire man is waiting for you in the parlor," whispered Cinchona, discreetly indicating with a sharp, skinny finger toward the room near the front door. Amazing how even an elf's whisper managed to sound squeaky.

Lucius sighed. Something was wrong, no doubt. If Mateo were only visiting, he generally showed up on the full moon or perhaps the following day…this was two nights later. It shouldn't have surprised him, after all; with everything that had happened in his life, especially in the past few years, _nothing_ should surprise him. Add to that the fact that Mateo had an odd habit of showing up at the most inopportune times and scaring the daylights out of him, and it pointed to one thing: something was up, and he wasn't going to like it.

He pulled open the double wooden doors, plastered on a gracious smile, and walked in. "Mateo, how lovely to see you again! It's been quite a while."

"Hi, Lucius," Mateo answered quietly, very unlike himself. He didn't even get up from the sofa where he half-sat, half-lounged, looking bleak. "How have you and the family been?"

"Fine, thank you. Yourself?" Though Lucius detested this protocol of polite exchange, he could not fathom dispensing with it. Good manners had been bred into him.

"Could be better," said Mateo honestly.

Now suddenly curious and a tad worried, Lucius moved to the sofa beside him and sat, his brows dipped. "What is it? Are you ill? Is Tonia alright?"

"We're fine, truly," Mateo insisted. He forced himself into a fully upright position. "There's been another werewolf attack on our cult."

_Damn it, here it comes. He's going to ask me to bring my friends and do away with the beasts. I knew there was something! For Merlin's sake, it's not as if Bella is still here, the bloodthirsty bitch—get a grip, Lucius, he hasn't said anything yet. _"I see. I take it by your presence here that you've got additional news."

Mateo nodded, shifting almost nervously. "We caught one, questioned her the next day." His eyes sought the refuge of the floor, where they traced along the pattern of the Turkish rug. "They were a bunch of kids, Lucius. We killed them." He swallowed hard, and his voice came out rough. "I helped kill them."

That was unexpected, to put it bluntly. Lucius, his mouth agape, stared for several seconds. "You—you what?"

"We weren't aware they were children, I swear," Mateo went on in a rush, desperate to alleviate the guilt crushing his chest. "The girl we captured, she's only fifteen. She told us about the rest—well, that and hypnosis. Anyway, there are five more, one as young as seven. Even if Yadiro would slaughter them to be rid of the threat, I can't! It's not right…."

He lifted his face to his great-nephew, his pale eyes meeting the steel grey. Without asking outright, the expression pleaded with Lucius, who coughed lightly, averting his face. "Where are their families?"

"Some dead, murdered by Greyback. The rest, I don't know. The kids were stolen and bitten, kept together in a secluded location for Greyback to train into an army for Voldemort." Just saying the words made him sick. Watching the appalled expression on his nephew, at least he didn't feel so alone in his revulsion. "What I do know is they're British, and they belong here."

"If I may ask, how in bloody hell did they get to Spain? And why?" blurted Lucius.

Mateo shrugged and sighed heavily. "I don't know how they got there, only that it took them a long time to find a way and to find us. They wanted to kill us, the _sangristas_, for not joining Voldemort long ago. If we had, he wouldn't have allied himself with werewolves, and the children wouldn't have been bitten to form an army."

Stony silence descended on the room. Lucius swore in his mind. It was just like Voldemort to pull something like that, wasn't it? That despicable, halfblood bastard had done so much destruction in his lifetime, and even after death he managed to continue the horror! And the poor children! Lucius shuddered at the thought of his babies being bitten by those heinous beasts, forced to live forever after as reviled creatures.

Trying to use a kind tone, Lucius leaned slightly forward, angled toward his uncle. "Mateo, why did you come? I'm sorry for these children, but what do you expect me to do about it?"

"I don't know, Lucius," the _sangrista_ replied helplessly. It seemed he was using that phrase an awful lot lately. The only thing he was certain of concerning those werewolves was that they needed help he was not prepared to give, or even capable of giving. "You're one of the few wizards I trust. And face it, you're filthy rich."

"I prefer 'enormously wealthy', thank you," Lucius corrected him dryly, with a glint of a smile.

Mateo grinned back. "Yes, well, I thought maybe…since you have connections… and money..." He glanced about the room, a gesture not unnoticed by his host.

"No! No way in hell am I bringing a bunch of little werewolves into my home!" Lucius stated emphatically, rising to his feet in a defiant stance. So he had a huge estate and plenty of room. Did Mateo have a clue what he was asking? "Narcissa's father was murdered by werewolves. I will not subject her or my children to such danger."

"I understand that, Lucius, and I'd not ask for such a thing," Mateo responded softly. For crying out loud, did he think Mateo was daft? "I only thought perhaps you could find their families, or—if you felt so inclined—provide an empty house for them where they'd be safe."

"Without guardians? Are you mad?"

Question about daftness answered. "Your friend Snape brews that special werewolf potion—what's it called?"

"Wolfsbane."

"Yes. Can't he brew it for them to keep them from becoming like animals every month?"

Lucius paced back and forth on the rug, slowly, thoughtfully. Severus had made that potion many times for the werewolf Lupin; surely this would be no problem, per se, and Aline could help him if it proved labor intensive. Lucius honestly had no idea what was involved, nor did he frankly care. He'd loathed Potions class in school, and he didn't feel any more merrily disposed toward the endeavor now. As for the cost, he supposed he could afford to donate the ingredients as a matter of good will—but he was getting ahead of himself. There were so many things to consider. First off, they needed to locate relatives, and there was one sure way to do that.

"Ordinarily a wizard would go to the Ministry of Magic in such a situation. Of course, I'm not particularly welcome there, so I'll need a special guest or two." He grinned, and Mateo thought he saw a hint of slyness. He found it encouraging. "We'll figure something out, Mateo, don't worry."

"I knew I could count on you, Lucius," said Mateo with evident relief.

Lucius didn't answer, he was busy organizing things in his mind. So much to do, so little time—literally. If they didn't get those kids out of Spain before the next full moon, Yadiro Buitrago would probably execute them. He laughed under his breath, which came out as a sort of snort. _Snape's going to love me for this_.


	62. The Man in the Mirror

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 62 (The Man in the Mirror)

**January 12, 2001, morning**

Tom opened his eyes and rubbed a tired hand over them. It was hard to sleep here in this strange room, with Madam Pomfrey coming and going, and the occasional student turning up with one complaint or another. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, tiptoed over and peeked through the window of the swinging door Poppy had provided for his privacy. No one was about.

He slipped through the door and crossed the infirmary to the bathroom. Out of habit he stood in front of the toilet, hiked up the dressing gown-like robe he was forced to wear, and paused. This wasn't right. Where was his—no, this wasn't right. At any rate, he needed to pee, so he turned about and sat down. It didn't make sense. He was a boy! But obviously he was not, judging by his anatomy.

Polyjuice! No, it would have worn off long since. What bothered him, too, was the sensation that he was altogether familiar with this body; he understood instinctively what to do and how it behaved, as if he'd always done it. What was happening to him? He toyed with the idea of asking Poppy if he were somehow morphing shape, only she'd think he was insane, and he'd had enough of that in the orphanage. She did keep calling him _Therese_, though. It was annoying. When he got out of here, he'd find out what was going on.

And if all that weren't sufficiently disturbing, intermittent thoughts that he was certain had not come from himself drifted into his mind, something alien to his very nature. Maybe he was hallucinating. That could be part of this illness, couldn't it? Perhaps he only saw himself in a girl's body because he was sick! Soon he'd be better, and everything would be right again.

He got up, washed his hands, and hurried back to the safety of his cubicle. Throwing himself into the lone chair, he picked up his diary and began to read.

From the Headmaster's office, Severus opened the Marauder's Map as Potter had instructed him, his eyes immediately seeking out the infirmary. He let out a disappointed sigh at the name parading to the loo and back: Tom Riddle. True, the countercharm hadn't been on the diary long, and it would take time for Therese to grow strong enough to fight, but he found it disheartening nevertheless. He'd hoped for…what? A miracle? Hadn't he long ago discovered that 'hope' was merely an elusive word that promised so much and returned so little?

He shook his head, closed the map with a tap of his wand and the requisite words of 'Mischief managed', and stored it in the top drawer of his desk. Had this been how his family and friends felt at seeing him in all his Tom Riddle splendour? No, they must have been much more appalled. He'd surely been far worse, for Therese had only become a young Tom, one fairly benign in the scheme of things; Severus had been taken over by the adult Tom, the evil wizard who'd tortured and murdered many times, who had figured out what he was doing to Snape and had relished it.

Severus sighed again. He was tired. He'd naively thought that the death of Voldemort would allow his life to settle down, yet that hadn't been the case. Oh, yes, he was no longer tied to two megalomaniacs, forced to do their bidding, but he was far from carefree. It had been one thing after another for the past two and a half years; now he had Tom Riddle in one of his students, with the Longbottoms' predicament hanging about the fringe. Not that Aline pressured him, he simply felt obligated to help. And if that blasted owl sitting in the window, hooting for attention, was a letter about someone wanting something, he was going to explode!

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**January 12, 2001****, night**

As Mateo prowled the empty, dark corridors of the Ministry, Severus stood waiting beside the row of floos, arms crossed, obviously in a peeved state of mind. He peered at Lucius, whose connections in the Ministry had gotten him this emergency late night appointment with Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"I hope you realize that I already have the Longbottoms to deal with, on top of the Tom Riddle situation," Snape said, not for the first time. Lucius pretended not to hear. "Damn it, Malfoy, turn that pretty blond head this way and listen to me!"

Lucius swiveled his head a touch, one light brow raised slightly. "I am handsome, Severus. Not pretty." He flicked his long locks over his shoulder. "Can I help it if you're what we need?"

"And that's another thing! It's bad enough you've volunteered me to make Wolfsbane for half a dozen werewolves. I do not appreciate having to ask Harry Potter for two favours in two freaking days! First the Map, and now this. My God, that brat will own me by the time you're done." He pursed his lips tighter, crossed his arms a tad more snugly, and proceeded to pout.

Lucius leveled a stare, accompanied by a mild sneer. "My dear Severus, given your less than scintillating personality, despite your wartime accomplishments, it behooves us to bring along someone the Minister actually likes. As I am _persona non grata_ since the war, I can hardly fill that post, now can I? Surely Potter realizes that as well as you do."

"Yes, Lucius, I'm confident those are the precise words rattling through Potter's cavernous skull," Severus retorted dryly. He highly doubted Potter knew what the words meant, let alone would use them in a sentence. "Although to be fair—and I am nothing if not fair—"

He was interrupted by an explosion of laughter from his friend. His best death glare failing to quell the prat, he went on in a huff.

"To be fair, Potter isn't quite as witless as I once believed."

"Why's that?" Lucius choked out, rubbing the merry tears from the corners of his eyes. "Because he fancies you now?"

Severus sneered back at him. "That is one telling sign."

The floo roared to life and Harry walked out, automatically rubbing a hand through his spiky black hair to brush out the soot. "Hello, Professor. Mr. Malfoy," he finished through gritted teeth.

"Hello, Potter," Severus grumped, still not over his bout of irritation.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," Lucius returned in a sickeningly sweet civil tone. "Thank you for coming. We shouldn't keep the Minister waiting." Borrowing from the information Mateo had taught him about _sangristas_, he sent a high, trilling whistle down the corridor and a few moments later Mateo came flying back, his feet almost scraping the floor.

"Interesting place," Mateo commented, then dropped down to the floor. "Hi, Harry, it's been a long time. It's kind of you to help out."

"It's my pleasure, Mateo," Harry answered, smiling. He'd met the vampire a few years back at one of the Malfoy functions he'd felt compelled to attend, and to Lucius' chagrin the two had hit it off. "I'm sorry to hear of the trouble, and the kids—which is what we're here to discuss, right?"

Snape glared at his back. Had he not already told the Brat Wonder that very thing? "Shouldn't we be on our way?" _Some of us have a million things to attend to besides idle prattling_.

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"You've made very plain what the problem is, Mateo," Kingsley said, leaning forward at his desk, his small fez cap set at a jaunty angle that looked ready to fall at any second. "However, these are not wizarding children. We don't ordinarily intervene in muggle affairs. What is it you want me to do?"

"They're British children. It was _your_ wizard and _your_ werewolf that caused all this! I want you to bloody fix it!" Mateo shouted. He'd given up on diplomacy ten minutes ago, not that he'd ever been the epitome of tact or patience.

"If I may," Lucius interjected, pressing Mateo in back of himself. "What my uncle is so gracelessly trying to say is it would be in everyone's best interests to find the children's relatives."

"Mr. Malfoy, they are werewolves. Setting them upon a helpless muggle population is unconscionable," said Kingsley, as though he believed Malfoy capable of such a thing on his own.

"Snape knows how to make Wolfsbane potion," Mateo piped up, pushing Lucius aside with a mere brush of his hand. "He offered to do it for them."

Severus twisted his mouth and stepped forward. Up to now he'd been content to let the others fight over the situation. "Yes, I have made the potion many times in the past," he acknowledged, deliberately excluding the part about _offering_ anything.

"And I will be happy to donate the lifetime cost of ingredients and supplies the children may need," Lucius added. If the Ministry was not indebted to pay any of the cost, they could scarcely complain about it, could they? And if it happened to promote the Malfoy name in a brilliant light, who was he to argue?

Here Harry stood up, speaking for the first time since the conversation had got going. "I hate to say this, but what if the kids' families don't want them back? I mean, Minister Shacklebolt can certainly find them, right?" The Minister nodded grudgingly. "But this is a huge problem, and dangerous if not properly treated. Remus Lupin was worried his son might become a werewolf, but he had dealt with it himself for most of his life, he knew the signs and what to expect. Regular people would need some kind of support system, especially muggles. I'm not sure if all parents are willing to put up with that hell every month."

He sat back down, lost in his own world of recalling his childhood, of not being wanted—and he hadn't even been a werewolf. The others exchanged concerned glances, considering seriously for the first time that this could be an issue.

Shacklebolt took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "That is a distinct possibility. In such an event, we'd need to appoint guardians for the children, and provide a place for them to live where their…condition…would cause no undo disturbance."

"We already know at least one set of parents is dead. For all we know, all of them were killed by Greyback. How long will this take to find their extended families or to appoint guardians?" asked Mateo.

"I can't say for sure," admitted Kingsley. "I will try to expedite it."

"The leader of my cult is going to slaughter them if they aren't gone by the next full moon," Mateo replied, his voice barely controlled. "That doesn't give a lot of time."

"I will do my best," promised Kingsley. "We'll meet again tomorrow to discuss the details. In the meantime, supply me with a list of their names and I'll send out my people to find the families. For tonight, let's try to get a good night's sleep."

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**January 14, 2001**

"What is that, Draco?" asked Oksana, wandering across the snow covered field where the young man was sitting on a rock reading a parchment.

He lifted his head to squint at her; this snow made the sun bounce painfully into his eyes at times. "My father wrote me about something terrible. It's a long story, but it involves werewolf children. He said he may need my assistance in the very near future."

"To fight werewolves?" she asked, aghast.

"No," he grinned, slipping the note into his coat pocket. "I'll let you know if I have to leave." He noted the little black dragon poking its nose out of Oksana's pocket, nuzzling her hand for a treat. "I see Sineglazka is as charming as always."

Oksana stroked the black head, nodding. "She is getting so big, is hard to hold her in my pocket anymore. I think she will break through soon. But she cries that she is cold."

"If she had a nest and mother, I guess she'd be warmer," he replied with a shrug of one shoulder. He held out his hands and the tiny dragon stared at him for a second, then cheeped loudly, wriggling in her confined space. "Come to Draco."

Oksana pulled the squirming dragonette out and handed her to Draco, who cuddled her to his chest, opening his coat and letting her rest against his heart, and closing the coat over her with her head peeping over the top at his neck. She thrashed briefly, getting comfortable, and settled down with an audible sigh. She looked up at Draco, her big blue eyes blinking contentedly.

"Dragomir will get jealous if he sees this," Draco laughed. "He'll want to crawl in here, too."

"He can crawl in with Bori," Oksana responded with a light giggle at the image. Bori was big, but not _that_ big.

"I haven't brought this up," Draco began, afraid he may be venturing into territory where he had no business. But he was curious, and others were talking about it. "I heard you'd gone off with Bori and got married. Is it true?"

"Yes." Flushing from excitement and partly from the cold on her cheeks, she pulled off the glove on her right hand to display a solid gold band emblazoned with a pattern Draco wasn't familiar with. "We married on New Year. I have no family, so only his relatives were there. We wanted it to be a small affair," she added hurriedly, lest he feel slighted.

"Congratulations!" he said sincerely, standing up to give her a good hug, to the protests of the dragon against his chest. "I need to tell Bori as well. He'll think I'm terribly rude."

She sniggered. "I don't think so. He is so happy, I think is why everyone is talking."

"I'm so happy for you, Oksana. You and Bori belong together."

"I think so," she agreed shyly, ducking her head a bit. "I should go cook something. Why don't you come along and talk to Dragomir? He spends so much time by the fire, and he will be glad to see you."

"I think I will, thanks."

Draco accompanied her to the cabin, and when she split off for the kitchen he entered the living room where, just as predicted, the small green dragon was lounging on his back beside the fireplace, his stubby legs in the air. He appeared to be smiling. Upon Draco's entry, he yelped his delight, rolled over, and charged at the wizard. He stopped cold when he noticed Sineglazka snuggled in Draco's coat. Turning up his nose, he spun round and flopped back down with a thud.

"Oh, don't be like that," Draco cajoled, kneeling beside the creature. He patted the animal's snout and stroked his neck, massaged his floppy ears. He sent along an image of the green dragon licking his face. "You know I love you."

He unbundled his coat to take it off, carefully setting Sineglazka on the floor next to Dragomir. Unable to feign disinterest, the larger dragon scooted to a position where he could see the little imp of a creature hobbling along. Poor thing, it still could barely walk—no wonder Draco had to carry her! Dragomir nudged her with his snout and whimpered something. She glanced up at him and blew a thin stream of fire into his face, setting him off into hysteric bouts of dragon laughter. He returned the fire and Sineglazka erupted in hiccupping squeaks of joy.

"You two had better watch out, you'll burn down the place," Draco said dryly, not that he expected them to understand or care. He didn't need his special talent to understand what was going on: Dragomir was entertaining his sister. Enough said.

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**January 15, 2001**

Dolph sat up straight on the sofa at the sound of a knock on the door, his book slipping shut onto the floor. Not many people knew he lived here, and those that did were likely to send word of their impending visit, lest they end up with a curse to the face. Muggles came by now and again soliciting—none of them repeat offenders, for his bark was every bit as vicious as his bite. His wand gripped in his fingers, he approached the door cautiously.

"Who's there?"

"Aline Snape."

Dolph threw open the door, his face split in a wide smile, his wand forgotten. "Miss Aline, what an unexpected pleasure. Please come in."

Aline eyed the wand warily. "Are you sure you weren't expecting someone else?"

Laughing, he thrust the wand into his trouser pocket, waving her in with the other hand. He'd have kissed her hand like a proper gentleman if he weren't afraid of her clairvoyance reading him like a newspaper. "Sorry. I don't get a lot of visitors. Can't be too careful." He shooed her into the living room and stopped at the sidebar. "May I offer you a drink? Wine? Firewhiskey? What's that American cocktail—tequila?"

"That's Mexican, actually," she said, chuckling softly. "I shouldn't have barged in, I should have owled first. I really only came to speak to you."

"That doesn't mean you can't have a good time, does it? You must allow me to be a fitting host." He half-filled a glass with amber liquid, then popped the top of a soda can and poured some in. "Something I discovered in a pub here—rum and coke. Quite tasty." He mixed another, then crossed the room and handed one to her.

She sniffed the concoction, then sipped at it, wrinkling her nose. "A little stronger than I'm used to. I shouldn't be drinking anyway, I'm still breastfeeding. Thank you just the same." She set it on the coffee table.

"Guess I'll just have to finish them both," he shrugged. He lifted a hand to summon something from the kitchen. A purple aluminum can with gaudy graphics soared through the air into the outstretched hand, and he offered it to her. To her perplexed expression, he replied, "It's called 'soda pop', I believe. Burns the throat a bit, but nary a drop of alcohol." He seated himself next to her on the sofa, watching in amusement as she tried to ascertain how to open the blasted thing.

"Like this." He slid his finger under the tab and pulled up, eliciting a hiss from the can and a surprised gasp from Aline. "Yes, it's weird. Muggle, you know."

"Thank you," she said, tentatively taking a minute taste. Slightly grape flavor. Sweet, fizzy…kind of nice. "It's different, but I like it. Is Jorab here?"

"Aw, now that hurts," Dolph exclaimed, clutching dramatically at his heart. "I thought you came to see me."

"I'd like to speak to both of you, if I could. It's about the Longbottoms."

Dolph refrained from the immediate response of swearing under his breath. Instead he contented himself with taking three large gulps of his drink, polishing it off. That was better, he always enjoyed the burning in his gut that preceded the feeling of relaxation. "Rab's not here, he's out with Liv. What about the Longbottoms?"

She hesitated, sensing the sudden change in his demeanor. "Severus and I have been to see them. We're hoping to figure out what has caused the impairment to their brain function, and hopefully heal it." His blank expression betrayed nothing, yet she could tell he didn't relish this line of conversation. "Your brother asked us to look into it."

A flicker of something—anger, betrayal?—crossed his face, and was gone. "Rabby asked you to do it? Why?"

"He feels guilty for his part in it. Look, Dolph, I'm not here to make you uncomfortable, or to judge or condemn you. I just need to know what curses were used on them so maybe I can help them."

Dolph set his glass on the coffee table with a loud clink and picked up the one Aline had left there. He took another great swallow before finally answering. "Sorry I can't provide any information. I don't really remember that night very well."

"You don't remember, or you don't want to tell me?" she asked point blank.

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not. Either way, I leave empty handed." She got up, took a long drag of the sweet drink in her can, and put it down. "I apologize for the inconvenience. The…soda pop…was good."

"You don't have to go," he protested, standing as well. "That part of my life is over, I don't want to rehash it. Sit with me, let's have a pleasant conversation."

"I'm not even sure what you mean by that," she answered quietly, starting to fidget nervously. "You made no secret in the past that you had a crush on me, and that's fine, no harm done, but…I only intended to ask you some questions."

The corner of his mouth tipped upward in a wry grin. She could read him so well even without touching him, it seemed. "I'm well aware this isn't a date," he said, his dark eyes boring into hers. God, she had lovely eyes, so deep and brown he could get lost in them. Not if he wanted to live more than a day or two, though. He forced himself to look away. "So we can't even be friends?"

"We are friends," she said, displaying a feeble smile. "I really should go. Take care."

"You, too." He followed her to the door and closed it silently behind her, then swilled down the remainder of his rum and coke. Aline felt awkward around him, knowing his sentiments for her. That just figured, didn't it? And now Rabby was going behind his back, stirring up things best left alone. All around, this had turned out to be a shitty day.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Drawing a steadying breath, Rabby managed a weak smile before plunging his face into the pensieve. Aline had tracked him down at Livonia's house, had sent an owl asking him to meet her here at Hogwarts, and he'd complied because it had, after all, been his idea to solve the Longbottoms' problem. He'd asked Aline not to accompany him into the pensieve, for fear if she saw firsthand what had occurred that night, she'd rescind any and all offers of assistance. He flashed through the air to land on a plush rug in front of a sofa, barely a foot from the wizard known as Rabastan Lestrange. Instinctively he recoiled at the sight of himself in this place, at this time, for this reason. He edged back, taking in the full scene.

"_Where is my master__?" shrieked Bella at Frank Longbottom, who was lying on the living room floor of his own house, at her feet. Her eyes projected a purely maniacal expression that frightened him more than the threat of more Cruciatus. She'd had him beaten by the men with her before beginning the Unforgivables, and already he felt so feeble he could scarcely think straight to give her a coherent answer._

_ "I told you I don't know," moaned the man._

_ "He's dead!" Alice Longbottom shouted from Rabastan's arms, which held her fast. "Leave Frank alone!"_

_ Bella gestured brusquely with her wand at Alice. "Let her go. Rodolphus, you watch __him__ while I convince his wife to tell the truth." Without further ado, a hard Cruciatus ripped into Alice, sending her screaming to the floor._

_ "Please, let her be!" bellowed Frank, trying to get up and kicked back down by the Death Eater towering over him. Gasping for air, he reached out for his wife. "We don't—know anything."_

_ "Don't know or won't tell?" asked another voice. Barty Crouch pushed himself away from the wall and came out from the shadows into the light, his blue eyes rimmed with red but set in anger. Lord Voldemort had been stolen away by the Order members, there was no other plausible explanation. A body doesn't simply vanish, so he couldn't be dead…he couldn't be. Not when Barty had finally found the mentor and father figure he so desperately craved. He couldn't lose him—he wouldn't!_

_ Without even consciously willing it, he aimed his wand and threw a crucio at Frank that lifted him off the ground from the force of it. Impressed, Rodolphus grinned and clapped him on the back. Rabastan merely nodded his approval. Barty and Bella lifted their wands at the same time, leaving husband and wife panting and sobbing on the floor._

_ "Where did you take him?" hissed Bella through clenched teeth. "We know your filthy group has him."_

_ "No," groaned Frank. "We don't. As far as we know, he died when he hexed the baby."_

_ "Babies don't hex back!" shrilled Bella, slamming him with another crucio. Panting in fury, she lifted the wand in preparation for another round of questioning. _

_ "Let me have a go," said Rodolphus, moving closer and aiming his wand__ at Frank. He prepared for another Cruciatus, then halted. It hadn't been doing any good up to this point, had it? Sure, it was Bella's favourite curse, but he needed results. Perhaps he ought to try something different. What was that curse Malfoy liked, the one that burned inside? Ah, yes. He cast a powerful hex that made Longbottom grow rigid as he screamed from the burning ache all through his body. When at last the screams died down into hoarse choking rasps, Rodolphus finall_y_ lifted his wand._

_ Leaning down again, Lestrange said, "That pain is negligible in comparison to the Cruciatus. I'm being nice to you. Tell me where the dark lord is and we'll be on our way."_

_ "I—don't—know,"__ gasped Frank._

_ Rabastan, encouraged by his brother's participation, stepped forward and pointed his wand at Alice. "It's admirable that you want to protect your friends, but isn't family more important? Do you want her to suffer, Longbottom? Do you like it? Tell us, or she gets it."_

_ "Please—" was all Frank got out before Rabastan flung a curse that nearly severed the woman's arm. She shrieked and fainted._

_ "She'll bleed to death, you know," Rabastan stated in a deadpan voice, twirling his wand in his fingers._

_ "Alice! Oh, God, please, I don't know where he is," Frank sobbed._

_ "Lying bastard," Bella growled, shoving Rabastan out of the way and sealing the woman's wound in one swift movement. If the bitch died, they'd never find out where Lord Voldemort was taken. "The master taught me some new spells. Watch and learn—I'll open their minds and look myself! __Gemynd derein__!"_

_ Alice's body buckled; she grabbed her head in both hands, screaming piteously. When Bella resumed questioning, they got no further than they had before._

_ This time Rodolphus cast __a spell on Alice, followed immediately by Rabastan. Barty took on Frank, followed by Bella. Over and over it went, hours passed in the fruitless questioning and torture, each of the four Death Eaters taking turns in using new and inventive curses, demanding answers, but none so intent as Bellatrix. By the time she agreed it was useless to continue, as both husband and wife appeared beyond all hope of lucid responses, the Longbottoms had been irreparably damaged._

_ "Maybe he really is dead," said Rabastan very softly, wand at ready in case of attack from Bella. How could anyone withstand all that torture and refuse to answer?_

_ "What was it he said about living forever, Bella? His soul in a horcrux?" asked Rodolphus._

_ Bella nodded, lips set grimly. "We have to find him even if he is a soul, so we can restore him to a body. But where did he go?"_

_ That was one question no one attempted to answer. The Death Eaters stepped over the bodies of their victims and left them lying on the floor when they departed_.

Rabby pulled his face from the pensieve, his eyes filled with shame and horror. Had that truly been him and Dolph, torturing the couple as casually as walking a dog? He could easily believe Bella would act so cruelly…and if he let himself, he believed it of himself. He knew well enough what he'd done over the years, what he'd been capable of, try as he might to forget. What most filled him with dread and made him shudder inwardly was the knowledge that, given the right circumstances, he might fall back into that old pattern—and lose everything that meant anything to him.

He cleared his throat and glanced at the waiting Aline, then rapidly averted his guilt-filled eyes. "I remember now. Some of the curses didn't affect the mind, like _glubero corpus_; it can sever a body part on contact. Mostly it was just the Cruciatus…"

"Which doesn't leave permanent physical damage, despite the agony," Aline mused softly. "There had to be something else, something that affected the mind and body together." _Something so horrendous that even the healers were not familiar with it, and hence would not look for it._

"Bella had some new curses I'd never heard of. She bragged that the dark lord had taught them to her, and said them out loud, supposedly so we could learn them. I didn't even bother to try at the time." He felt himself pulling away as if the distance could mitigate the creeping waves of self-reproach.

"You saw them right now?" asked Aline, certain that he must have.

"Yes. I can write them down for you, but I have no idea what they do or how to reverse them." He picked up a quill from Snape's office desk, and Aline handed him a slip of parchment. Leaning over the desk, he scribbled the words that he'd heard Bellatrix say, along with every other spell he'd recognized from that night. Let Aline figure out what to do with them, he had no clue.


	63. Family Matters

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 63 (Family Matters)

**January 7, 1942**

Tom liked Christmas holiday. He was practically alone in the castle for the fifth year in a row, free to practice his magic and to study as he saw fit; but all good things come to an end. So it was this year, as every other year. The children arrived on the train, roaming like mad hordes in the hallways, chattering like monkeys. Tom would have been in the Great Hall for supper had he not been trying to avoid the obnoxious creatures for at least one more night.

He was on his bed, reading a book on ancient yogis and nibbling on a biscuit he'd gotten from a house elf earlier in the day, when his roommate Lewis Mulciber entered with his friend Nott—or more aptly, supported by his best friend Nott. The latter dragged him over to his bed, helped the moaning boy sit down, and turned to Tom, who sat watching the scene with evident interest.

"Lord Voldemort, it's good to see you," Nott said, nodding to Tom.

Tom merely acknowledged the respected title with a brief inclination of his head. "What's happened to Mulciber? Got in another duel?"

"No…" He seemed reluctant to go on, but another glance at Mulciber spurred him to action. "I tried to heal him, only I'm not very good at healing charms. Do you think you might…?"

Tom slid off the bed, his wand already in his hand. He crossed the room and stopped at the bed, looking at the shin Mulciber was clutching in his hands, his face white, beads of sweat on his forehead. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"I—I think it's broke," Mulciber panted.

"He can't put weight on it," added Nott.

"Why didn't you take him to the infirmary?" asked Riddle.

Neither boy answered at first, then Nott said quietly, as if afraid someone might overhear, "His dad did it. If he found out someone knew, he'd get mad."

"It—was—an accident," Lewis contradicted his friend. "He—didn't mean—to push—me."

"Bullshit," Nott muttered under his breath. He may not have intended to injure his son, but he'd damned well pushed him on purpose while they were arguing over something on the platform. Lewis had fallen onto the track, got his foot stuck in the rails, and twisted his leg, with a resounding crack that Nott had heard from several yards away. How Lewis had managed not to scream eluded him, though he had looked about to pass out.

Tom swirled his wand over the area a few times, the set of his face revealing nothing. Then he said simply, "When I tell you to pull, jerk it hard. I'll do the rest." He pressed Lewis onto the bed, indicating that Nott should lift the injured leg by the ankle and get ready. Tom glanced at Nott and said, "Now."

Nott jerked the leg at the same instant Tom waved his wand over it, chanting an incantation that was drowned out by the sound of Mulciber's shriek. A second later, Mulciber flopped unconscious on the bed. With a terrified expression, Nott turned to Riddle. "Did we kill him?"

"Of course not. The pain overtook him. He'll rouse in an hour or so, and in the meantime his leg will heal fully." Tom went back to his bed, picked up his cookie, and started reading again.

"Riddle." Nott waited for him to acknowledge his presence. "Thank you. Where did you learn so much about the body?"

"I study a lot," said Tom with a shrug.

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_January 7, 1942_

_ School is back in session—well nearly. The other students arrived from holiday tonight. Lewis Mulciber had a broken leg caused by his father, apparently. I healed it for him. It's best we keep out of the spotlight, so to speak, or I'd have sent him to the hospital for treatment. In a way this is for the best, as it gives my followers a taste of what I can do for them, and cements their loyalty to me._

_ It makes me wonder all over if I even want to search out my grandparents and my father. If I did, it wouldn't be till this summer, but…what if he turns out to be like Mulciber's dad? I'd never let him beat me or maltreat me, I know that. Yes, Lewis says his dad loves him and all that, and maybe he does, but he's got a queer way of showing it. I was of the impression that love is supposed to be gentle, weak. I must seriously reconsider my venture._

Severus put down the book, shaking his head. He found himself doing that a lot after reading Tom's diaries. That very summer Tom _had_ gone to seek out his family, and had slain them. At the point of writing this entry, he was still not a murderer, had not even killed Myrtle with the basilisk. How quickly things can change.

He sighed, remembering his own school days. This entry brought up a very similar situation he'd encountered, when Lewis Mulciber's son, Jack, had been abused by his father and Severus had done what he could to ward off the damage until they could get the boy to the infirmary. Admittedly, that had been a life-threatening injury, unlike the one he'd just read about, but the fact that the torch had been passed from father to son gave him pause. How had Jack managed to escape the curse of the Mulciber family, of the abusive cycle? Jack had always been kind and loving to his children—Jacinta included. Whatever the reason, Severus was glad for it.

He looked up at the clock on the wall. If he hurried, he'd have time for a little diversion before getting to work on this stack of papers taunting him. Funny thing, he'd never noticed Albus doing any paperwork, yet someone had to do it. Maybe he'd just been more efficient at it than Snape—or had learned to hide it from those entering his office. Whatever. Best utilize this time while he could. He left the office the way it was, leaving the gargoyle to guard it behind him.

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**January 16, 2001**

"I don't care if no one is going to see it, you get your lazy bum in gear and straighten it up." Fidelia Nott, arms crossed and foot tapping in a lovely black pump, stared down her eldest son over the messed damask bedspread twisted in among the sheets and blankets of the master bedroom of the Nott estate, where he'd taken up residence long ago.

Theo glared back for only a moment; experience had taught him not to push his luck with Mum. Mumbling quasi-obscenities under his breath, he yanked the bedclothes off of the king size bed and lifted the sheet to place it over the area. When he hesitated, pondering whether he ought to try using his wand, the look on his mother's face told him he'd best do it the old fashioned, muggle way. Scowling fiercely, he made the bed, tucked in the corners, and threw the pillows on top.

"Happy?"

"Not really," answered the woman, eyes roaming about. "When is the last time you dusted this house? Or cleaned the floors? Merlin's britches, son, you are a Nott, have some self-respect."

"If you'd send back the house elf, I wouldn't have to," he responded snidely. "Clean, I mean. I already have self-respect."

"Most people get by without elves, and if you were so keen on having one, you'd move back to Scotland with your family," she said.

"I don't want to live there." He'd meant to cushion the sentence, but his mouth ran ahead of him. The wounded look on her face shamed him.

"Yes, I know. You'd rather live all alone in this big house than spend any time with the family that conceived and bore you and brought you up."

"Mum, I didn't mean it like that. I love you and Dad and the kids, but I'm an adult. I have a job, and I need the floo to get to work. I visit whenever I can." He sent the puppy dog eyes her way, and she relented as he'd hoped she would.

"I suppose Jacinta would think you a pig if she saw this house," Fidelia maintained, shaking her head.

Theo thought it in his best interests not to mention that not only had Jacinta seen the place in this state of affairs many times, she was in part responsible for it. "Yes, well…" he mumbled.

A shrill scream rang out in the back garden. Theo would have assumed his sister was simply being…his sister…had Missy not come rushing in the door holding her left hand in her right, blood streaming down her arm into the elbow of her coat. "Mummy! Help!"

Fidelia ran to her daughter, knelt at her side, and pulled her hand away to inspect it. A deep gash sliced across the palm. Taking her wand, Fidelia chanted an incantation over the injury, sealing it cleanly. She then _scourgified_ the oozing red mess from the girl's hands and clothing. "Missy, what happened?"

The girl sent an accusing glance her brother's way. "I was makin' snowballs, and when I scooped up a bit, it hurt, and I saw the blood coming." To her credit she wasn't crying, for growing up with three brothers had taught her not to show too much weakness.

Fidelia _accio_'d her cloak, threw it round her shoulders, and opened the door. "Show me where. Rocks don't cut that clean, and I want to see what hurt you."

Missy dutifully—and rather self-importantly, if you asked Theo—strode across the yard covered in footprints and a trail of blood. She pointed at a section where it was obvious she'd been mucking about. "There." She crouched on her haunches to peer into the snow.

Right beside her, Fidelia poked into the snow with her wand. It struck something hard; she lifted it out and brushed off the wet, mushy film to reveal a shard of pottery…no, china. Giving a quizzical look, she studied it at length, with Theo near hyperventilation in the background. Fidelia rose to a standing position slowly, turned to her son, and held out the broken piece. "Care to explain, Theodore?"

_No, I'd actually prefer not to_, were the words on the tip of his tongue, though he'd be re-swallowing them if he dared let them slip. "Um, well, you know Draco was going back to Bulgaria…and he…I hosted a party—a small one—for him." Theo's eyes darted about, hoping to find a means of escape.

"And you broke one of my dishes?" asked his mother, a little too calmly.

"Er…no." Theo took a tiny step backward. "More like…all of them." He grimaced, anticipating a slap to the face.

"_All of them?_" echoed his mother, flinging the shard back into the snow.

"Except the teapot," Theo replied feebly. He'd have fled for the house had he not realized that she'd be free to pulverize him there with no chance of passing witnesses to attest to his maltreatment. Not that they were really close enough to a neighbour for it to be an issue. Nonetheless, he double-timed his steps backward as he protested, "It was Blaise! He started throwing them in the air and shooting them, and then everyone joined in. I didn't think you'd even care. You kept them in a cupboard, and you hate them."

"Theodore Nott, how could you?" It was more of an exclamation than a question as she marched after him. "Don't you run away from me, young man!"

Theo stopped in his tracks; Fidelia stormed up to him and whacked him hard on the rear with her hand as if he were a naughty toddler. "You're fortunate your father didn't come along! His great aunt gave us that set for our wedding. It was antique, an heirloom, and you crushed it without a thought."

The wizard squelched his desire to plead that he'd tried to stop Blaise…but had he? Not really. Noting out loud that the set had been hideous didn't seem like a beneficial thing to say at the moment, so he merely moved a teensy bit further from her. "I'm sorry."

"I was planning to give the set to Missy when she gets married," Fidelia went on.

"I'm sorry," Theo said more insistently.

He'd almost forgotten Missy was there, standing behind Fidelia and watching the whole thing. She leaned round her mother to sneer, "I'm telling Daddy you broke my dishes and got me hurt."

"It wasn't just me! Why do you have to be such a brat?"

"Theo, enough." Fidelia took her daughter's hand, then stepped over to give her son a kiss on the cheek. "We're going home. I expect the house cleaned by the next time I visit, and every bit of this china picked up and discarded properly. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mum."

_Please don't tell Dad_. As much as he wanted to say it, he knew Missy would run right to their father and spill her guts. She was his only daughter, his youngest, his little princess; Theo surmised he'd probably be lucky to walk away without a sound thrashing when she was done pretending Theo had almost killed her. Yes, he'd been irresponsible with his parents' belongings, he'd failed to even tell them he'd allowed their dishes to be destroyed—or that he'd hosted a party in their home, and he'd left the debris all over the yard. But it wasn't as if any real harm had been done.

In retrospect, maybe he ought to have been nicer to his sister over the years instead of the constant quarrelling between them, especially considering the twelve year age difference. The kid would be a fine ally…and he did love her. "I truly am sorry you got hurt, Missy. And that I let your dishes be demolished, Mum."

Fidelia nodded, turned on the spot, and disapparated. Theo looked out over the glare of the sun on the snow. It was going to be hell finding all the pieces with the blasted white blanket in the way. He couldn't even _accio_ them, unless he wanted several hundred or thousand shards zipping at him at once. Sighing, he took out his wand and cast a spell to melt the snow one section at a time.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Normally Dolph didn't walk into the loo when his brother was in there, open door or not. This was no normal situation. He gave a cursory knock on the frame and barged in; Rab was standing by the sink, toothbrush in hand. Crossing his arms, he barked, "What do you think you're doing?"

Jorab, who'd seen his brother hovering near the door before entering, took the toothbrush from his mouth to say, "Brushing my teeth. What does it look like?"

"Don't get smart." Dolph paced a bit, wishing he'd formulated his argument prior to coming in. Deciding that he'd pose less of a dominating figure if he sat, he put down the lid on the toilet and seated himself, stretching his legs, then crossing them as he leaned back.

"If you've got something to say, spit it out," Rab said, taking his own advice and spitting out the toothpaste into the sink. He fixed his brother with a teasing gaze. "Or do you just enjoy watching me go about my daily ablutions? If so, sorry to disappoint; I already took a shower."

Dolph returned a withering glare. Maybe it was a good thing Rabby could joke about something like that now, but he wasn't in the mood. "I hear you're trying to cure the Longbottoms."

There was a pause so slight one might not have noticed unless one was acquainted with Rab's mannerisms. "So?" He returned the brush to his mouth and worked it vigorously.

"So we don't need that whole bleeding affair opened up again!" the elder wizard snapped back, dropping his feet to the floor and bending forward. "We've got a good thing going now, and I won't let you ruin it."

More to keep from having to face his brother than anything, Rab bent over the sink and spit again, taking his time to rinse his mouth several times with water. When he could stall no longer, he stood up and spun partially round. "How is it gonna hurt us to help them? Bella and Barty are dead. The Lestrange brothers are dead. Nobody's gonna be looking at us."

"Except to wonder what _you've_ got to do with it," Dolph countered.

Breathing to calm himself, for he absolutely hated arguing with Dolph, Rab returned his toothbrush to the wall holder, then turned fully toward his brother and leaned against the sink, wrapping his fingers under the rim. "I'm not even involved, not so anyone would know. It's Snape and Aline—and why shouldn't Snape help them? They were in that bloody Order of the Phoenix with him."

"What do you care?" Dolph exploded, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "What do you bloody, f—king care? What's done is done!"

"And _we did it!_" Rabby screamed back. "Don't you get that?"

Startled at the sudden, uncharacteristic outburst, Dolph shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He grumbled, "We didn't do any worse than the aurors during the first war, when they were given license to use Unforgivables. And don't say they didn't, because we heard plenty about them torturing and murdering our people, or those they suspected of being ours. Hell, we ended up getting the blame every time they attacked innocent civilians."

"That's not the point."

"It is! Frank Longbottom—and his wife, too, if I recall—were aurors. How do we know good old Frankie wasn't killing and torturing our own? Maybe he's the one who killed Evan Rosier," Dolph challenged. It wasn't as if Rab could contest the fact that many aurors had been every bit as lawless as Death Eaters during that time.

"I think that was Moody," Rabby said softly, shaking his head. He didn't take pleasure in this, he didn't like fighting with his brother, or having to defend his actions, but one didn't always get what one wanted. "Look, Dolph, I'm not trying to make trouble. We did a lot of horrible things, don't deny it; we spent fourteen years in Azkaban paying for it. The Longbottoms, whether they did anything terrible or not, have spent a lot longer insane. I just…I want to make something awful I did into something _right_. Can't you understand that?"

"I understand, Rabby. But I don't agree. What if they get well and remember us?"

"We're dead!" Rab repeated, pleading with his brother. "We don't even look like we used to. I'm not stupid, don't you think I considered all this before I went to Aline?"

Dolph got up to pace some more. The younger wizard was right, he wasn't stupid, nor did he have some bizarre wish to be caught. Certainly he'd thought through every angle possible—knowing Rabby, he'd reflected on it at great length before deciding to make a move. And come to think of it, how likely was it that the Longbottoms would ever have contact with the Goodman brothers in Bradford, of all places? They'd hidden here because it wasn't a hub of purebloods, or of people they'd known in their former life. No one they used to associate with lived here or even visited here, and it wasn't as if their friends would hobnob with the Longbottoms even if they were cured. Except Snape and Aline, who'd be sort of forced into it by virtue of their part in the matter. He didn't like Snape all that much anyway, and it was probably for the best he kept his distance from Aline, for the most part.

"Alright, I won't interfere. But if anything goes wrong, I will kick your arse so hard they'll be digging my boot out a year later."

Rab smiled almost shyly. Dolph had never struck him, nor did he suspect the man ever would. He really didn't believe they had cause to worry; they looked very different from their former selves, no one could prove they were the Lestranges—who were officially dead, and therefore not likely to be walking the streets of Bradford. Anti-glamour charms would reveal they were not shielding their true forms, and hence were not the infamous brothers. Seriously, if two notoriously mad patients claimed these men to be the deceased Death Eaters, wouldn't it merely make it appear that they were still cracked? "We can talk more about it over breakfast. I believe I can convince you we are not in danger."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

She'd been poring over the names of the curses for so long they'd begun to intermingle in her brain. _Gemynd derein. Revelio knouleche. Sweyen to min willa._ Of the twelve curses Jorab had listed for Aline, she'd narrowed it down to these three as being the likely culprits in the damage done to the Longbottoms. The rest of the curses she was familiar with, or Jorab had explained their functions to her, and she was sure they could not possibly have wreaked such havoc.

_Gemynd derein:_ tear the mind. That's how it was translated, though she'd never heard of the curse itself. The name alone made it plain this was not child's play. _Revelio knouleche:_ reveal information. Aline knew this curse, one supposed to be used on _objects_, not people. Evidently its use on humans was detrimental, but how much? She couldn't say. _Sweyen to min willa: _bend to my will. She shuddered. Bellatrix had been trying to make the Longbottoms bend to her will, alright.

The first thing that stood out to her was the origin of these new hexes: all of them were of Old or Middle English roots, not Latin. That meant they'd been created more recently, and almost certainly in Britain or America. How had Bellatrix learned them? From Lord Voldemort, obviously, but where had he gotten them? Had he developed them himself, or was there a source?

Her mind drifted to Salem, to the public library where she'd loved to study Dark Arts, especially those native to her own country. After Lord Voldemort had achieved a degree of power in Britain, a good part of the materials had been concealed in a restricted, guarded archive requiring special permission to enter. The Ministry in Salem had been afraid he'd use the resources to learn even more terrible spells, as if he needed them. Her stomach lurched with a sickening revelation: Tom Riddle had disappeared from view for many years between his schooling and his rise to power. What if he'd visited Salem during that time, when the materials had been freely available? She should talk to Severus, find out if he knew of any such trip or if the dark lord had spoken of being in America.

With that, she got up from the desk in the Potions lab, realizing for the first time how chilly she felt. Rubbing her arms with her hands, she left the dungeons and made her way to the Headmaster's office; Severus was not there. Well, that was easily solved now, wasn't it? Taking her wand, she unlocked his desk, smiling to herself. He'd be vaguely disconcerted to know she'd learned his spells from a vision months ago. She removed the Marauders Map, chanted the mandatory charm, and touched her wand to it.

It opened for her, and she searched everywhere she thought he might be. Not in the infirmary, where 'Tom' was pacing like a caged animal. Not in the Great Hall, or the dungeons, or even his Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. That was odd. She squinted, placing her face closer and studying every inch of the map; he simply was not here. Where had he gone? She'd at last decided to give up, and with a sigh raised her wand to intone the chant when suddenly his name leapt out at her. He was in a corridor on the seventh floor. That wasn't possible! She'd just looked there—and then she remembered their wedding afternoon, where she and Severus had spent hours making love in…what had he called it…the Room of Requirement. What on earth would he be doing there?

The steps were coming her way, toward the office, so she sat down in his chair to wait. A few minutes later Severus entered and stopped cold, his face morphing into a stony pokerfaced façade. "Aline, this is unexpected."

The witch eyed him up and down ever so slowly, sensing something was off. That look he rarely used with her, the terse greeting, the—dare she say it—guilty expression hiding beneath his blank exterior. "I was looking for you to ask you a question, but that can wait. I've got another question, namely what were you doing in the Room of Requirement?"

The slightest flicker of apprehension sparked in his eyes and was gone. He had realized he couldn't go on forever without her finding out, and if she already knew and was testing him, lying seemed a very poor option. Then again, the open map on the desk may have been how she found out where he'd been. In that case, he was under no obligation to feed her a complete dose of information. "I was relieving some stress."

Aline cocked her head, twisting her mouth in disgust. "You were masturbating?"

"What?" he said, flustered, which was comical on a man of his nature. "No! I was dueling."

"Really? With whom? I didn't see anyone else come out of there."

Damn it, there was no recourse without lying, and if he lied she'd find out, and the shit would hit the fan…along with his severed head. He'd ask her to sit down, but being as she was already seated, he approached the desk and began to straighten the pile of papers he'd yet to go through. Nonchalantly he said, "With Bellatrix Lestrange." Wait for it…

"Bellatrix? You went into the Room of Requirement to battle _Bellatrix_?" shrieked Aline, rising to her feet.

"I do believe I just stated that fact."

"How could you?" She rounded the desk and shoved him out of the way in her quest to reach the door.

Severus reeled, righted himself, and snagged her by the arm, careful to avoid letting her get leverage to knock him aside again. He remembered all too well that her family clairvoyance imbued her with a special preternatural strength that he'd prefer not to be on the receiving end of. "What is the big deal? It's only practice to better my dueling skills."

"Oh?" She shook his hand loose and glared viciously. "As if I don't know how aroused you get when you duel! What else are you doing with that whore?"

Severus rolled his eyes, groaning audibly. "Bloody hell, Aline! She's not even real! She's an image created by the castle. And I only become aroused when I duel with _you_. Do you think I had a boner when I was fighting Dolohov or any of the others? I'm not a f—king pervert!"

"Don't you dare speak to me that way!" Aline seethed, whirling on him, brown eyes blazing. "If you can't be civil, don't speak to me at all." With that she spun back to the door.

In a flash he'd swerved around her and blocked the exit, a sneer creeping unbidden on his lips. "Darling, what is the problem? I do not now, nor have I ever, found Bella to be the tiniest bit enticing."

"Then why do you like her better than me?" Aline demanded. Even to her the words sounded silly, yet she couldn't stop them from flinging themselves from her mouth.

"My God, Aline, are you totally off your trolley? I despise her! I've despised her from the day I met her," Snape slung at her.

"You used to hate me," she countered, defiantly challenging him to rebut.

Gritting his teeth to keep his cool, he enunciated clearly, "That. Was. Different. I hated Bellatrix because she was a bitch. I hated _you_ because…" He halted midsentence, not sure what reason to produce, as he'd really had no basis for his antipathy toward her when they met.

"Because _you_ were a bitch?" Aline supplied, smirking.

He burst out laughing at the wholly unanticipated response and pulled her into a hug. "I don't generally associate that term with myself, but in a manner of speaking, I suppose I was. Don't be angry, love, I just needed to get out some of the tension from all that's going on right now."

"You still like dueling her better than me," Aline noted into his chest. It wasn't surprising; she'd heard Bellatrix was exceptional, so it only made sense Severus would go to one who could teach him new skills. "I sound like a jealous twit, but you know how I love dueling, and I enjoy developing my talent, too. It made me feel bad to discover you'd chosen her over me."

"The two of you don't compare," Severus answered solemnly, kissing her forehead. "Dueling her is work, dueling you is pleasure." A thought niggled into his brain. "Would you like to come along next time? Bella would give you a run for your money. She certainly does me."

Aline hesitated. Now that she knew what was going on, she didn't want to spoil things for her husband. "If it wouldn't bother you. I'd love to meet this infamous witch."

"And so you shall, my dear. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn me? About what?"

"You'll see," Severus grinned, nodding to himself. Aline versus Bella; this could prove most interesting.


	64. Trips and Falls

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 64 (Trips and Falls)

**January 17, 2001**

Marshal wiggled a bit on the hard stone where he'd been sitting for at least an hour, his palms extended to the small fire burning amid the snow covered, desolate ground. In the near distance, just past the jagged cliff, the sound of surf pounding on piles of enormous rocks emitted its deafening yet surprisingly soothing, hypnotic roar. A bound figure on the other side of the fire stirred, tried to sit up, and fell over, terror etched on her face.

"Ah, there you are," Marshal cooed, relieved to be getting on with this. He'd used a touch too much chloroform, he guessed, which was to be expected when unfamiliar with the drug. However, when in a fully muggle neighborhood, he tried to be prudent about using his magic, lest the Ministry send an auror to check on things. That was the last thing he needed…well, maybe not the _very last_, there could be much worse, but it would be bad. Besides, he enjoyed adding weapons to his arsenal, whatever type they may be.

"Who're you?" gasped the woman.

He rolled his eyes heavenward. "Why is that the first question everyone always asks? Why not, 'Where are we?' or 'How did I get here?'" He sighed like a martyr. "So f—king predictable, you muggles."

"What's a muggle?" When the man made no move to answer, she timidly went on, "Where are we and why am I tied up? What're you gonna do to me?"

"Finally, something different!" he exclaimed, smiling. He got up and walked round the fire to stand over her. "I am what you call a vigilante. Has a nice ring to it, yeah?"

"I 'aven't done nothin'," the woman replied, trembling. "Please let me go."

"You haven't done nothing," Marshal repeated, shaking his head as he remembered the professors at Hogwarts doing to him so often. He stopped short of clucking his tongue. "That's called a _double negative_." He chuckled to himself, pleased that he'd recalled such an obscure term. Truthfully, it hadn't been so obscure, as he'd been instructed with those words countless times. Be that as it may, he had work to do. "It means you really did do something."

"What're you talkin' about?" squealed the woman, squirming to be free on the ground, her long hair caked and wet with snow. "Please—"

Marshal cut her short by opening his cloak and removing a thick wad of papers, which he shook in front of her. "This is a copy of the transcript for your trial. You remember, the one for murdering your hubby and two daughters."

"I was—I was found innocent," she objected, quaking harder.

He snorted. "_Not guilty_ in a trial doesn't make you _innocent_. Believe me, I am intimately aware of the difference." He removed from the same pocket of his cloak a tiny vial. Kneeling down beside her, he prompted, "Open up."

"You goin' to poison me?" she croaked, her voice rising as she tried to wriggle away.

"Merlin's britches, you muggles are all alike! Why would I poison you when I could just chuck you off the cliff?" With his strong fingers he pried open her mouth, dumped in the Veritaserum, and held her mouth shut until she swallowed. "There we go. Now, in your own words, tell me what happened to your hubby and kids."

The woman's eyes glazed over, staring into the distance past him. In a mere drone of a voice, she intoned, "Jimmy come home pissed again, smellin' of whore. It's all he done, waste money on pubs and whores. I'd 'ad a pint or two, was feelin' ornery. We 'ad a fight, and he punched me. I hit 'im wif the stick we keep behind the door. He fell, and I jus'…I snapped, I hit 'im again and again till he didn't move no more."

Marshal nodded in seeming empathy. "I can hardly fault you for that. The bloke was begging for it." He pursed his lips. "However, that doesn't explain why two small children were bludgeoned to death as well."

"That weren't me!" she shrilled, then began to weep hysterically. "The girls was in bed. I was scared, I left after doin' in Jimmy. Next thing I know, the bobbies come draggin' me in."

For a long moment Marshal said nothing, listening to the muggle sob into the snow, where a patch had melted under her. He was confused. She'd swallowed the Veritaserum, she was telling the truth; she hadn't committed the offense he'd kidnapped her for. This wasn't supposed to happen! Up to now he'd always got the culprit to confess to his crimes, and then he'd taken care of business. Simple. This woman had confessed only to the murder of the husband, which wasn't really a big loss in the scheme of things. Barely even murder—arguably self-defense. Yet the children…the court hadn't been able to prove her guilty, perhaps because she wasn't.

At last he said, "Who killed your kids? And why?"

"I don't know!" she screamed, her sobs ratcheting up. "Half the city 'ad reason to kill Jimmy, but why my girls?"

Marshal looked over the transcript again, flipping through the pages rapidly. Her barrister had argued a good case for her, which till now he'd thought a complete load of shit. Apparently she'd been blameless in the children's deaths after all. Now what? He scratched his head in irritation, then used his wand to loose her bonds.

"There's only one thing left to do."

Realizing she was suddenly free, the woman scrambled rapidly across the ground toward the edge of the cliff. Marshal gave a disbelieving shake of the head; where did she think there was to go? She crouched into a ball, casting glimpses here and there like a cornered rat. Before the wizard could register what she was about to do, she shoved off, careening backward over the cliff into the sea.

"F—k! I was just gonna _obliviate_ you and take you back," he growled to no one. He walked over to the brink of the precipice, gazed over, and scowled at the water churning below. "Thanks a lot, muggle! Now I suppose _I'm_ expected to find out who murdered your brats. Well, I don't think so!"

He kicked angrily at a tuft of grass sticking through the snow. Finally he returned to the fire, extinguished it with a few scoops of snow thrown over it, and disapparated. Being a vigilante wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

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From the kitchen window, Jacinta observed her fiancé slogging slowly through the back garden, looking down, searching the ground. Every now and then he'd stoop over to pick up something, which he tossed into a large tin tub set a short distance away. She noticed the wilted yellow grass which ought to be covered with snow, but wasn't…very strange.

She came out of the house and crossed the yard toward Theo. He looked up at her and waved with a hand red from the cold. When she got near, she peered into the tub, which contained hundreds of fragments of the dishes they'd blasted at the party.

"Finally cleaning up the mess, huh?" she said, bending to scoop up two large chunks of a cup. She threw them in with the rest.

"Yeah. Mum and Missy came by yesterday, and Missy cut her hand on one of the shards." He leaned in to kiss her.

"Is she okay?" asked Jacinta.

"She's fine, but Mum was severely hacked off." Another piece of china sailed into the tub with a clink. "She yelled at me about responsibility in the house, and about destroying a family heirloom." He sighed, trudging further into the yard as he melted off another patch. "I feel so bad about it now. At first I was worried Dad was gonna come, but he didn't. In a way, I think I feel even more guilty because of it."

"I'm sorry we broke your mum's dishes. I'll help clean it up," Jacinta said softly. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

Theo turned to her, bemused. "You think I don't know that? It's my own fault for letting Blaise start the whole thing." He picked up three more pieces and dropped them in the metal container. It was taking forever, yet he had no choice except to do it by hand. A thousand times he's been tempted to try to accio one segment of the garden at a time; logic told him he'd be asking for facial and bodily surgery if he gave in to his desire. "I should make _him_ come lend a hand."

"Want me to go fetch him?" Jacinta offered.

Theo pulled her into a hug and snuggled at her neck for a bit before saying, "Thank you, my darling Cinta. But no, he'd probably act like an arse until you hexed him. If you want to help, you could clean the house while I finish this." He raised his eyebrows hopefully, his brown eyes piercing her blue.

"Alright," she said, to his great relief. He wasn't sure when Mum was coming back, though he was sure he'd better have complied with her requests before she did. "Mama taught me loads of spells that make housework go faster. I can get the mop going for the floors, wash the dishes, and dust the furniture all at once. And that doesn't even require my direct participation, leaving me free to make the bed, clean the bathroom, and what not."

"You'll have to show me later," he smiled, genuinely impressed. All along she'd known how to keep house and hadn't told him! "From now on I'm expected to keep a tidy home."

"Not a problem," she breathed in his ear, making his knees weak at her presence. She sauntered away, aware of his eyes on her, and smiled to herself. He was so blasted cute!

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Jacinta had offered to accompany Theo to Scotland to apologize to his father for his transgression; he'd politely asked her not to. If Dad did get cross enough to smack him, he didn't want Cinta there to witness it. He apparated outside the alarm wards set up to keep out anyone who'd not been present at their creation, who'd not added a bit of his or her own magic to the mix in order to be recognized and allowed through without incident.

Theo entered the house, which seemed oddly silent. Shouldn't Missy be prattling about? There was no smell of food cooking, either. His stomach tightened. "Mum? Missy? Dad?"

"Upstairs," called his father, and Theo allowed himself to breathe again.

He traipsed up the steps and went from room to room till he found the elder Nott in the back bedroom that faced both west and south, where he'd established a tiny indoor garden of tomato plants and green beans and squash. As it happened, he'd discovered living here that he had quite the green thumb, and that he liked growing things. The air was warm and humid, and Theo found himself peeling off his coat almost immediately.

"Theo, what brings you here in the middle of the day?" he asked, shaking his son's hand warmly. "Not that I'm complaining."

Theo smiled wanly. Dad was happy to see him…that probably meant he didn't know about the dishes or about Missy hurting herself in the yard. "Just came to visit," he said, averting his eyes, studying a tomato vine a little too keenly. "Your plants are growing nicely. These should be ready to blossom soon."

"Yeah…so why are you really here?" Nott knew his son, and Theodore wasn't particularly interested in plants, nor was he paying attention to them despite his façade, as evidenced by the fact that the tomato plants were currently in bloom and he hadn't noticed—that, and Theo tended to avoid eye contact when he felt guilty. "What did you do?"

"I thought Mum or Missy had told you," Theo said quietly, ambling to the other end of the cramped room, ostensibly to mull over the condition of the squash. His hand stroked the thin vine nervously. "You know those old dishes your aunt gave you for your wedding? Well, I…we, me and Blaise and a bunch of friends…we broke them all. And Missy cut her hand on one of the pieces. I'm sorry, I thought you hated them, I—"

"I see." Nott maneuvered round the plants to sit on a bench pushed against the wall. He motioned for Theo to join him. "Did your mother give you hell for it?"

Theo moved over woodenly and perched on the bench beside the older man, his head down looking at his folded hands. "Yes. I assumed Missy had come running to you…" _Shut up, Theo! She's his favourite, don't get him mad!_ "I was irresponsible, and we're lucky Missy wasn't badly hurt."

If he'd glanced at the elder Nott, he'd have seen the hint of a smile, the light twinkle in his eyes. "Truth be told, I couldn't care less about the china, Theodore. Your mother says it was hideous, and I believe her." Theo lifted his face in surprised relief, and his father went on, "However, I am disappointed that you found it necessary to demolish it. That said, I forgive you."

"Thank you, Dad," Theo sighed.

"Don't take this as permission to trash anything else, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Theo smiled back at his sire, love flooding him. He'd anticipated the worst, and had encountered the best. His dad really was the best, like Missy always claimed. He'd always known it, too… "Dad, what would you say to building a greenhouse over there on that flat piece? You could grow a whole lot more food, and I could help you construct it, and maybe even Dolph would come—he built the porches."

"I'd like that a lot," Nott answered, nodding excitedly. "We can't begin till spring, though." He moved to the window to gaze at the indicated area, and spotted his wife and daughter entering from the direction of the muggle town. He pointed out across the yard. "Why don't you go spend some time with your sister? She misses you so much."

"Okay, then I can come back and visit, and stay for supper."

Theo left the room, coat in hand, pounded down the stairs, and exited onto the porch as his mother came near. A minute later, he and Missy were romping in the yard, throwing snowballs at one another and making plans for a snowman. An hour later, standing back to admire their handiwork, Theo held his sister's hand and grinned. He'd forgotten how much fun it was to be a kid, and what good company Missy could be when she wasn't being a brat. He made a mental note to visit more often so he didn't forget again.

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**January 20, 2001**

_Scearu peine_. Share the pain. Aline sat up in bed, wide awake, the words burning into her mind. Why hadn't she realized it before? She threw aside the covers, jumped up, and ran into the adjoining room where her desk was set up. A quick _lumos_ set the room alight in a soft glow. She tore open the top drawer, removed a piece of parchment, and with her hand shaking slightly she took the quill to pen a letter to Bayly.

Severus entered sleepily a moment later, his expression both solemn and alarmed. "Aline, what is it? Is something wrong?"

"No, I needed to send this, that's all." She blew on the ink to dry it, folded the parchment, and whistled for her owl.

"Darling, it's five o'clock on a Saturday morning. What could be so important?"

Aline looked up at him, not really wishing to tell him. He'd not like it—well, it wasn't as if she liked it, either, but sometimes certain things must be done regardless. "I have to talk to Bayly about what his father did to him."

Pause. Drawled, guarded reply of, "Why, if I may ask?"

"Please trust me on this, Severus. It could be instrumental in healing the Longbottoms."

Severus approached slowly, and plucked the letter from her fingers. "I trust you implicitly, my love. But waking up Bayly to ask him to come over and discuss the worst horrors of his life is rather…unlike you."

Her face fell. "I'm not asking him to come this very second. It's not something I enjoy doing, you know."

"I understand that. It can wait at least till after breakfast, can't it?" he pressed.

"Yes." She shut the drawer and returned the quill to its spot, capped the ink, and took a deep breath. "I wanted to send it before I lose my nerve. You know that certain curses carry a discernable magical signature, right?"

"Yes, I am aware," he answered, afraid that he knew all too well where this was headed. Only select few curses, those radically different from the rest, could be traced in the body, and even fewer people were able to read those signatures. He was not one of them…but Aline was. Clairvoyants in general were the only ones able to do it; from what he'd read on the subject, unwary readers had suffered greatly from the enormous toll it took on their psyches. But Aline was no fool, she knew what she was getting into, she'd not be reckless.

"I…I'll need to touch him again to discern the pattern of the curse, to see if I sense the same magical signature on the Longbottoms, and…it's ghastly, Severus. You saw—you saw what I showed you. I'll see it again, and I don't want to, but if there is anything I missed, I have to uncover it."

"You have to know if they used this spell on the Longbottoms," he said. It made perfect sense, though given the choice he'd look for an alternative method. So would Aline, he was certain, meaning she had envisioned no other way to go about it. "Couldn't you just ask Jorab or Wendolph?"

Aline nodded. "I did—Jorab, I mean. He doesn't know the spell, and doesn't believe his brother does, either. They're very willing to share spells with each other, so he's probably right. That means if it was used, Bella or Barty Crouch used it, and silently so Rabby didn't hear it."

"If I forbid this, you'll still do it, won't you?" Severus asked with a barely visible lift of one corner of his mouth.

"What do you think?"

He gathered her into his arms, where she pressed tightly against him. He felt a shudder run through her, one mirrored in his own soul. How could he condemn her? In her place, he'd do the same thing—if not merely to help the Longbottoms, then from a need to learn. It was almost like a curse unto itself, this thirst for knowledge. His hand stroked along her hair and down her back, to rest on her buttock. He may not be able to stop her, but he wasn't going to let her do this alone.

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He stood directly behind his wife, folding her in his protective arms, murmuring to her that she was alright, that everything was alright, it was only a vision. He held her as she wept again at the images bombarding her mind, of the torture, rape, and murder of two muggles that Bayly had been forced to watch, forced to experience as if it had happened to himself. When she pulled away, he swept her backward, tightening his hold.

"I'm sorry," Bayly squeaked, distressed at the sight of his beloved friend in such pain because of what she'd seen in his mind. He looked so young and helpless that Severus wished he could comfort him as well, but his hands were rather full at the moment.

"It's not your fault, Bayly. Aline asked you to do this," he said evenly. Aline had seen it before, she knew exactly what to expect…she was seeking now the signature, and he desperately hoped she'd found it. Come hell or high water, he would not permit her to do this again.

Even as he spoke, he felt his wife gathering strength in his arms, and he loosened his grip. She stood upright, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her robe. Shakily she said, "I have it. Thank you, Bayly."

"Is it—did you feel it with Neville's parents?" Bayly asked.

"No…but I wasn't looking for it, either. I'll go back and read them later." She let out a long, exhausted breath. These memories had given her nightmares for weeks, and now she'd have that to look forward to again. Only when she read the Longbottoms this time, she'd need to search out any other unusual magical signatures associated with the curses she's learned of from Jorab.

"I wish I could be of help," he said plaintively. It wasn't fair to saddle her with those horrific memories and not at least offer her something of value to offset it.

"Did your—did Dolohov tell you where he learned that curse?" she inquired.

"From the dark lord, he said. I got the idea it was new for him, like he hadn't used it before," Bayly answered.

"He hadn't," Severus interjected. "Once a person uses that curse, he can never use it again—the curse upon the curse, didn't you say, my love?"

"That's right, honey," Aline said, giving him a smile that lifted his heart. "This is important information, Bayly; it means Voldemort did indeed visit Salem at some point, since that curse originated there and never spread beyond the area before it was condemned and forbidden. That lends credence to my theory that he learned other curses there as well, and taught them to Bella—perhaps curses she used on the Longbottoms. So even if _scearu peine_ isn't one of them used on Neville's parents, the others probably are."

"Which means you're planning a trip, doesn't it?" Severus asked, already knowing the answer.

"I have to find out, and the archives are the place to do that," Aline replied. If she found those spells, she might well find reversal spells for them. Ignoring this was not an option. "Bayly, I trust you to take my classes while I'm gone. And please don't fret, you've been more help than you know." She approached him and flung her arms round him.

"It's weird, I feel sorry and happy at the same time," Bayly grinned. Sorry to put Aline through grief, happy to be able to assist her with the Longbottoms and her classes. "I'll do you proud."

"I know you will. Be on the lookout for Severus, though—I think he's going to have you making Wolfsbane for those werewolf children." She smiled and pulled away from him, enjoying the panicked expression.

"I don't know how to make Wolfsbane! It's one of the most complicated formulas I ever saw," he protested.

"You won't become a Potions master until you can pass all my trials," Snape said. "And Aline—how long are you expecting to be gone? The potion isn't due for a couple of weeks."

"As long as it takes, darling. Oh, and I think I should take the babies with me. My parents have barely seen them at all…"

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**January 23****, 2001**

"It's been two weeks since the full moon, Shacklebolt. I had hoped by now you'd have things in hand." Lucius gripped his cane so hard his knuckles grew white. Did he have to spell it out again? In two weeks there'd be another full moon, and if those children were not gone from Spain, they'd be gone under the earth, dead and buried—or possibly burned. Dead, at any rate. For someone who claimed such an affinity for muggles, he had a perplexing way of showing it.

"I have not been able to round up any volunteers to act as guardians for the children," Kingsley replied, avoiding his piercing gaze. "Werewolves still pose a credible threat, and people are frightened of them."

_And they said Death Eaters were prejudiced!_ "What of the families? Have you tracked them down?"

The deathly silence spoke volumes before the dark skinned man opened his mouth. "Mateo was right. Charlotte's parents are dead, killed by Greyback. The youngest boy's parents were mauled to death, along with a baby girl, three years ago. The boy was never found, for obvious reasons. One mother doesn't want her son back, but two families are willing to try. They requested help from us in the form of Wolfsbane. I fear they may give up if it becomes too difficult."

"And you didn't bother to tell me about this because…?" Lucius growled. How long had he known there were two families who wanted their children back? Didn't he have any children of his own, didn't he realize the hell these parents were going through?

"Because strictly speaking it isn't your affair, and because I wanted a place for all of them rather than bringing back only a few," said Shacklebolt bluntly.

Lucius stiffened visibly. "If we wait much longer, there will be none to bring back."

"If you've an idea, I'd like to hear it," challenged the Minister.

The beginnings of a sneer crept over Lucius' face. He always had a plan.

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Lucius clapped Draco on the back as he hustled him out onto the porch. "I'll meet you there in a few minutes."

Draco grinned excitedly. "I'm eager to see him again."

"He'll be thrilled to see you as well," Lucius replied, then added a word of caution. "Watch out for his wife."

"Mother tells me you've worked your wiles on her."

Lucius gave a one shoulder shrug, not even trying to act modest. Smirking, he said, "I do have a way with the ladies, don't I?"

Narcissa opened the door wide and stepped out to kiss her son on the cheek one last time. At her heels, Ladon and Khala clung to her legs. "Be careful, son."

"Yes, Mama," Draco murmured into her hair. As he pulled away, he noted pleased tears in her eyes. He'd not called her 'Mama' since he was nine or ten.

Khala yanked at her brother's pantleg. "Day-co bye-bye." He lifted her into one arm and she smacked his face lightly, patting him. "Day-co come home."

"I will, sweetie." He squeezed her in a bear hug, kissed her several times, and handed her to their father. "See you soon, Brax. No hug for me?"

Ladon thrust his arms out to be picked up, and Draco obliged happily. "I go, too?"

"Not this time, Brax. Maybe when you're older." He hugged the lad fiercely and set him down. "Okay, this is it. Later." He disapparated on the spot.

"I'll have everything ready when you return," said Narcissa, cuddling up to her husband and pulling Ladon into the embrace. "Don't tarry."

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling," Lucius answered. He cupped her face in his free hand. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. It's the right thing, no matter what the idiots at the Ministry do."

Lucius gazed in rapturous love at his wife. After all these years, she never ceased to amaze him. He was going to fetch the werewolf children, and she was behind him one hundred percent, despite the fact that werewolves had killed her father many years ago. True, these were not adults, and Narcissa had a notorious soft spot for children. He leaned in and planted a tender kiss. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too, Lucius. Be very careful."

"It's my middle name," he quipped.

"Caleb is Fa'er's middle name," Ladon broke in, nodding solemnly. He appeared to think he was correcting his sire's mistake.

Lucius lifted him in one arm, his other occupied with Khala. "You are one brilliant wizard, my son. Take care of Mama till I get home."

"I will."

Lucius kissed both his children before setting them onto the floor and admonishing his daughter, "Be a good girl. Don't fight with your brother." He bent over to snog Narcissa once more, and whispered, "Be a good girl, Narcissa. You have my permission to be as bad as you like when I get home."

Narcissa's cheeks tinged pink, yet her face glowed with a smile. "Likewise, Lucius. Come along, children, let your father go. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he gets back, and we all can't wait for him to get back."

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He heard his name shouted from the rock shelf where the humans always met him, and a pleasant sensation filled his chest. Xerxes flew in an arc away from his family, where his wife was ripping chunks of raw, fresh meat off a carcass and feeding it to their children. Good thing he and his wife weren't taking the dragonettes for a short flight, or he'd not have heard the call. He sailed upward toward the yellow headed human—ah, Draco. Where was Lucius? He liked Lucius better…loved him, really, though he wouldn't get all sloppy and show it by licking him or anything.

He perched on the shelf beside the human and allowed Draco to pet him. He had to admit he liked Draco because he talked in a way Xerxes understood, unlike Lucius. And right now he was talking about a journey to see his favourite human, and some other mumbo-jumbo that he'd sort out later. They were going to do a favour for Lucius, that was enough. He permitted Draco to climb onto his back, screeched to his mate, and dropped from the shelf into a near freefall, making the hairs on Draco's neck stand up.

At the bottom of the mountain range, a short distance inland, he spotted a group of humans: obviously his target audience. Xerxes emitted a cry that could wake the dead, flamed a gush of fire from his nostrils, and almost did a spin in the air before remembering he was carrying Lucius' youngling on his back, and Lucius wouldn't appreciate seeing his babe fall to his death in front of him. With that in mind, he soared up to the group and landed gently in front of them. To his dismay, a gang of younglings began shrieking like they were on fire and cowering away.

"Stop it! You're frightening my dragon!" Lucius barked, stepping up to pat Xerxes on the snout as he glared at the squalling younglings. The children settled into trembling and cringing, but they shut their mouths. Evidently their time with Greyback had taught them something.

Xerxes gazed around at the motley crew assembled. Several of them were adults, but were they human? They didn't smell right. It was more like a deer carcass that had set in the nest overnight. And they didn't dress like Lucius and Draco, they all had on different types of skins, and their hair—one of them looked like she had a porcupine stuck to her head! Very strange. The younglings with them…even stranger. They smelled like dogs—wild dogs.

Lucius continued to stroke Xerxes as he spoke, his arm slung about the beast's neck, his cheek touching his pet. "Thank you, Mateo, for taking care of the children. Please thank Yadiro for me, and your friends here." He made a sweeping motion at the _sangristas_ surrounding the werewolf children.

"Forgive me, nephew, but what on earth have you got planned?" asked Mateo, quirking a blond brow upward. "When you said you'd lined up a method of transportation, I sort of assumed you meant the aurors were coming to get the kids."

Lucius gave an involuntary snort at the same time as Draco. They glanced at each other and grinned. "The Ministry, as usual, is dragging its collective feet. I thought it best to get the children settled in England while they hash out the details." He omitted adding that if the Ministry took any more time, there'd be no children left to aid, as the vampires would butcher them and save everyone a load of trouble. The kids didn't need to hear that.

"You've got a place for them, then?"

"My beach house on the west coast," said Lucius casually. "It's secluded, large enough for them all. They'll be safe." _And everyone else will be safe from them_. As for guardians, he'd have to demand the Ministry appoint aurors to look after the children once they arrived.

"Had I known, we could have hauled them across the sea for you," Mateo said.

"No, it's better this way. It's a two night trip each way; you'd need to hide during the day, and finding shelter for this many wouldn't be easy." He patted Xerxes' thick hide and added, "We've got all we need here."

Xerxes mewled and began to purr. How he loved it when Lucius petted him! Nonetheless, he was antsy to get going. He watched the funny-smelling humans wave, then suddenly launch into the air, and his eyes popped. Humans could fly? If so, why did they need him? Maybe only the malodorous ones could fly. While he was pondering this new development, Lucius took a leather wallet from his pocket, set it on Xerxes' back, and transfigured it into a saddle with eight seats. It was going to be a long flight, may as well make it as comfortable as possible.

"Alright, let's go," said Lucius, gesturing at the oldest girl. "Get the children aboard."

"We can't ride that, we'll fall off!" Charlotte protested loudly.

In an authoritative drawl that made her wilt before him, he responded, "I am a wizard, am I not? I will charm the seats to make sure you stay put. Come to think of it, all of you relieve yourselves before we go. We'll not be stopping any time soon."

The younger ones looked to Charlotte, who said plainly, "He wants us to go pee so we don't have to go later." Nodding understanding, they obediently traipsed off a few paces and unabashedly dropped their trousers to urinate. Another perk of having lived with Greyback, Lucius thought with distaste.

At last the group were dressed and seated on the dragon, Draco in front and Lucius in back, the children between them in a line. As promised, Lucius performed a simple spell to glue them to their seats for the ride. And what a ride it promised to be. As for the end of the journey, when he'd be compelled to take charge of this crew of six…it somehow didn't incite the same delighted feeling.

"Let's go, Draco. Tell Xerxes to take off."

The fat blue animal pushed up from the ground, flapped his enormous wings but once, and they were sailing into the sky, higher and higher, the wind whipping their faces and hair. He thought it amusing that this whole group of humans didn't weigh him down as much as one of his own babies when he flew them on his back for fun. They were getting to be so big; they grew up too fast, didn't they? And they were so beautiful, his children. Lips pulled back in a dragon's facsimile of a smile, he soared along the mountain range on his way to the seashore. Draco had mentioned a house on the seashore, across the big expanse of water…


	65. Gaining Ground

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 65 (Gaining Ground)

**November 9, 1937**

Tom wasn't particularly fond of The History of Magic. As much as he enjoyed learning and bettering himself, he simply could not force himself to pretend he liked this boring, dreary course where the ghost of a professor—literally a ghost, of all things!—droned on like a muggle buzz saw until it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Still, it was his first year in the magical world, he needed to equip himself with all the tools necessary to thrive here. He pinched himself hard on the leg to banish the sleepiness. To his left, Mulciber sat slumped in his chair, drool running from the corner of his mouth as he napped. A quick perusal of the classroom showed him that he was the only person fully awake.

He hesitated. He hadn't known Lewis Mulciber very long, and didn't want to create animosity, but he also didn't want one of his housemates to fail the class, placing a blot on the entire Slytherin House. Obviously it was an important subject or it wouldn't be included at Hogwarts, right? He elbowed his companion in the side. "Wake up. You're missing the lecture."

Lewis groggily turned his head to Tom. "Sod off. I don't care." He laid his head on the table top and began to snore softly.

Tom shrugged. He had tried. Mulciber couldn't blame him if he later failed miserably. He concentrated on the ancient, shriveled shell of a man floating at the front of the room, his brittle, reedy voice the only sound in the room aside from the scratch of Tom's quill and the even, deep breathing of his classmates. The lecture wouldn't be so dry if Professor Binns did something more than read from his notes. The old wizard apparently had a thing about goblins, he spent an inordinate amount of time talking about them.

Tom opened his textbook to read on his own while Binns droned on in the front of the room. In the past months of class, he'd learned quite a lot from Binns about goblin wars and goblin rebellions, making Tom very sure that he should never trust a goblin. They may be clever, but they were treacherous and shifty, hence the wizards' refusal to allow them to carry wands. Oh, and giants, the giant wars. Binns liked to mix that in with the goblin lectures for no apparent reason. But he was tired of hearing about goblins and giants—the latter of whom, it seemed to Tom, could be made useful in large projects. They were slow and dull-witted, but very strong and capable of building things. It might behoove the wizarding world to push aside their prejudices if only to harness the utility of other magical beings.

Tom scanned the beginning of the section on vampires. Now _that_ was something to aspire to—living forever! Being powerful, having the ability to fly, never having to eat or grow old, healing from wounds rapidly; yes, this was something very intriguing. He put up his hand, but since Binns had his head down, busy reading from his notes, he remained unnoticed.

"Professor?"

Binns stopped talking and looked up, startled. No one ever interrupted his lectures! "You there, boy. Did you say something?"

"Yes, sir. I was wondering if you might teach us about vampires."

The ghost floated back and forth in a parody of pacing. "Vampires? I believe we are studying—"

"Goblins, I know," Tom interrupted, barely restraining a sigh. "But I was reading in my book. Vampires sound like fascinating creatures. I rather fancy most people would choose to be one if they could."

"I wouldn't," replied Binns, for the first time taking on the look of a man with ideas and thoughts apart from those written on a scrap of parchment.

"Why not? You wouldn't have died if you were a vampire."

"Unless I was decapitated," retorted the instructor, still drifting back and forth. As Tom watched him, he wasn't sure if Binns yet comprehended that he _was_ dead. "Or burned to death from sunlight or massive amounts of holy water, or of course a stake to the heart."

"Their deaths are more rare than that of ordinary humans," countered Tom. "And they are much stronger than humans, require only small amounts of blood to survive—"

"And lose their magic if they happened to be wizards or witches before being bitten," said Binns matter-of-factly. "Thank you, but I prefer what I am."

Lose their magic? The phrase pounded into Tom's brain like a hammer. Magic is what made him special. If he lost it, what would he be? Just a stupid muggle with no power, no ability except his brain, advanced as it was. Even if he acquired all the rest being a vampire had to offer, he wouldn't trade his magic for it! He'd simply have to find another way to live forever, and if anyone could discover that way, he could.

"Thank you, Professor," murmured Tom, easing down in his chair. He was almost tempted to ask about werewolves just to shake up the order of things, but the old man had already gone back to his favourite topic of goblin rebellions. He heaved a breath and took up his quill; boring or not, he was going to learn something.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 23, 2001**

_Nov. 9, 1937_

_Today in the History of Magic class I learned that vampires who used to be witches or wizards lose their magic when bitten. How unbelievably dreadful! And to think I'd actually considered becoming one so I could live forever. It figures, doesn't it? Nothing is ever easy. If I—_

"Don't you ever stop whinging?"

"Who said that?" asked Tom, getting up from the bed in the infirmary where he'd been reading his diary. He still clutched the leather bound book in his hand, his eyes furtively skirting the room.

"I did."

Tom did a swift 360 degree turn, yet saw no one in the room. At that moment, it occurred to him that the voice had come from his own mouth, which was ridiculous since he knew he hadn't said it. "Where are you?"

"In here." Tom's finger tapped at the temple of his head.

Tom dropped the diary and scuttled to the far side of the room, cringing against the wall. "How did you get in my head?"

"I didn't—you got in mine!" the voice snapped. "And I want it back."

Tom blinked several times. This should seem extremely peculiar to him…why didn't it? For a while now he'd been thinking thoughts that weren't his own, hearing a tiny voice demanding to be heard…had wondered what had become of his genitals, among other things. Was he going mad? "Who are you?" he ventured.

"Therese, as if you didn't know," replied a girl's voice.

_Therese_. Yes, that sounded right for some reason. Well, the chit may believe this to be her body, but it wasn't, it was his. He controlled it, didn't he? And even if somehow he'd ended up here in a foreign body, he wasn't giving it up! Where would he go? "Shut up and leave me alone. It's mine now."

He crossed the room and threw himself onto the bed, determined not to think of Therese, not to let her annoying thoughts in. Outside, Poppy watched through the glass partition in the door, bewildered by the conversation she'd just heard. Severus had said something about the possibility of Tom arguing with himself, and that it was a good thing; he was going to be very interested—and hopefully elated—about this!

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 23, 2001**

It was daylight by the time Lucius peered down from the back of Xerxes as they approached his seaside house on the west coast of England. He'd never seen it from the air, a sprawling structure surrounded by rose gardens and tall grasses, set back from the water yet close enough to easily walk to the secluded beach; it was stunning. That should be a given, he supposed, with the amount of money he'd put into it, and the galleons he paid for its upkeep even though they rarely used the place.

Draco guided Xerxes to the front lawn while another group of humans waited on the porch, staring in awe and glee at the advancing dragon loaded down with people. Xerxes came to a halt in midair, then with deliberate flaps of his enormous wings descended gently in a vertical manner to land with a soft thud, of which he was rather proud, and grimaced when no one made note of his accomplishment. It wasn't every day a dragon had to carry such a load over a long distance, only to land with such precision. He sulked in silence as Draco and Lucius hauled the brats off his back.

Lucius had already moved forward to warn the onlookers to stay back, lest the dragon toast them. Draco led the ragged, unkempt, shaggy-haired children in a line forward, with Theo Nott snapping pictures and Chadwick Tolman scribbling notes as fast as his fingers and automatic quill could write. Harry, Sirius, and the Goodman brothers dismounted from the porch to greet the travelers.

"Please, it's been a very long night for us," Lucius said, motioning in a grand gesture at the children huddled about him and Draco. Fatigued as he was, he was determined to be strong for his charges. "We'd like to get the children washed up and fed before you ask them any questions. And make it short, because the poor things are exhausted and require sleep. Of course, I will be available for comment, as will my son. I trust you've already interviewed Mr. Potter and Mr. Black?"

"Yes, indeed, I have," Chadwick answered enthusiastically, nodding so vehemently he resembled a bobble-head doll. He was likely to get a Wizards' Publishing Prize for this article: not only did he get to interview the hero of the wizarding world, he had the full scoop on a group of British werewolf children abandoned by the Ministry! This would be front page headline news in the next edition!

"Jorab, Wendolph, Mr. Black, would you please take the children to the bathrooms and get them washed?" asked Lucius.

He'd contacted the brothers before leaving for Spain to ask for their help, and been very grateful when they accepted. He hadn't known how much trouble the children might be, and assumed it best to have strong men who were quick with their wands on hand, just in case. His first instinct had been to ask Severus, but knowing Snape's mortal fear of werewolves, it hardly seemed fair. Besides, he'd be doing plenty to assist by making the Wolfsbane potion every month for the next…oh...lifetime. Sirius had come along—unasked, mind you—with Potter, and though Lucius despised the mutt, he wouldn't rebuff his aid, nor make a scene at a time like this. "Mr. Potter, I believe you brought your elf along to cook?"

"Yes, I did. Kreacher has everything ready in the kitchen," said Harry. He desperately wanted to go pet the dragon, but dared not. No telling how it might react. Giving one last longing glance, he turned to the house.

The crowd retired into the house, Theo still snapping pictures like they were going out of style, and Chadwick taking Draco aside to begin his interview. To Xerxes' delight, his human came over to nuzzle him and murmur softly to him; Xerxes wasn't quite sure what Lucius was saying, but it sounded good, and he was fairly certain it included accolades at his flight and landing. Swallowing his pride, he gave Lucius a hard lick on the face before springing into the air for his return home.

Sirius led Charlotte and her brother down a hallway to the first bathroom, and stayed outside while the two got cleaned up. A nine-year-old girl and a boy of similar age followed Jorab in the opposite direction to the second bath. Wendolph gestured to the dark haired twelve-year-old boy and the golden haired seven-year-old lad to follow him as he trudged upstairs.

"What are your names?" he asked without preamble. To his credit, he kept himself from wrinkling his nose at the horrendous smell of them. Having been in Azkaban, he realized he must have smelled much the same at one time. In fact, had it not been for that part of his miserable history, Rabby likely would not have been able to convince him to come here at all, especially considering he'd nearly lost his foot years ago due to a werewolf.

"Tim," said the older one in a sullen tone.

"Marcus," said the golden haired boy.

When they arrived, Dolph opened the door and steam billowed out from the bathtub already full of hot water. "Which one of you is first?"

The lads looked at each other, then the little one said, "I'll go." Without a hint of modesty he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub, pulling back at first from the warmth, then letting himself sink into its comfort. Lying back, his head, barely above water, he grinned and said, "This is nice."

Dolph incinerated the clothing on the floor, to the astonishment of the two boys. Noticing their amazement, he drawled, "You're not wearing those scummy things again. Malfoy has bought proper robes for all of you." He waved at hand at Marcus. "Get moving, dunk your head and wash that hair, it's filthy. I can't tell if it's yellow or brown."

Marcus obediently dunked his head under the water and came up soaking wet. "Okay, I'm done."

Dolph returned a withering look. "I said wash it! With shampoo. And wash yourself."

The boy blinked the water from his eyes, staring at the wizard, then howled, "I don't know how! Greyback never made us wash! The older kids never made us!" The older kids, the teenaged werewolves who had taken over care of the children when Greyback disappeared, i.e. went to Azkaban.

Swearing under his breath, Dolph stepped forward, knelt down, and grabbed the bottle of shampoo off the edge of the tub. "You put some of this in your hand, rub it through your hair, and rinse it out. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes, sir," said the child meekly. He accepted the shampoo and rubbed it through his locks till his scalp hurt, then dunked himself under the water over and over, his eyes stinging though he dared not cry, his hair hanging in limp wet strands around his shoulders.

Feeling a tad ashamed for scolding the poor kid, Dolph took the washrag, ran soap over it, and proceeded to roughly bathe Marcus as his own parents had done for him when he was a little boy. He found he needed to go over each area twice before he felt satisfied the lad was clean. At last he took a thick towel from the rack, told the boy to stand up, and wrapped it round him before lifting him from the water, tinged with dirt and leaving a ring around the edge. He set the child on the plush rug in front of the toilet before vanishing the tub water and turning on the tap to refill it.

"Malfoy's got a barber waiting for you to cut your hair. Go in through there and they'll give you some clothes and food, then they'll tell you what to do."

"Thank you, sir," said Marcus softly, edging in the direction indicated. He looked uncertain as to whether he ought to be going by himself, for in the pack one never went anywhere alone. It wasn't safe.

Fortunately for him, Harry had grown weary of waiting for the children and had come to see if anyone needed help. He met Marcus in the hallway, led him to the guest room where all the new clothes were stored, and helped him select a new suit of robes before taking him to the kitchen for a hearty meal of beef stew, fresh bread, and milk.

Meanwhile, back in the loo, Dolph was encountering resistance from his other charge. "What are you waiting for? Get in there and take a bath. And don't tell me you don't know how, you're plenty old enough."

"Why should I? So I'll be all clean when you rape me?" retorted the boy defiantly, squatting by the doorframe.

Dolph barely resisted smacking the kid across the room. With fury simmering in his eyes, he grabbed Tim's shirt and pulled him close to growl, "You will never say anything even remotely like that again, is that understood?"

Eyes wide as tennis balls, Tim nodded mutely. He'd only intended to rattle the man, not piss him off. Greyback had warned the pack many times about wizards, how they couldn't be trusted unless he told them so. From personal experience he knew some men liked to do bad things to kids, but Tim was guessing this wasn't one of those men, nor were the others here. If they meant to hurt them, they'd have done so by now, wouldn't they?

"Get in there and get washed now! And you'd better be spotless when you come out."

"You're not gonna hit me?" asked Tim, vaguely surprised. Greyback would have done.

"Do you want me to?" challenged Goodman.

Tim shook his head fervently, dropped his clothing on the floor, and bolted into the tub with a splash that made the water slosh over the rim.

"Yelling at them already, I see," commented Jorab as he ambled into the room.

Dolph twisted about and smiled at his brother. "Looks like you're already finished. You got easy ones, huh?"

"Yeah, looks like," agreed Rab, leaning on the doorframe. He pointed his wand at the pile of odorous rags to incinerate them. "Malfoy and his kid are still talking to that reporter from the _Prophet_, the rest are downstairs eating."

Dolph got to his feet and went to the door, turning back with a stern expression for the kid's sake. "Don't dawdle, 'cause if I have to scrub you, I won't be gentle about it."

"You'll make a great father one day," Rab said, chuckling. He eased into the hall with Wendolph right behind him.

"Speaking of family, I've been meaning to ask. When you get married, have you decided where you're gonna live?" asked Dolph.

"Yeah," said Rab, glancing down almost guiltily. "Liv and I both think I should live at her place, for the privacy."

"Leaving me rattling round that big house in Bradford all by myself," said Dolph.

"It's not like I won't visit, you know. Maybe it's time you find a woman," suggested his brother, not really expecting that to happen anytime soon. "If you got married, you wouldn't be alone."

_Unless Aline happens to come to her senses, dump Snape, and make a play for me, I don't see much chance of that in the near future_, thought Dolph wryly. "Yeah, I'll think long and hard about that," he said sarcastically. "At least I'll have my dog, and with that blasted cat of yours out of the house, I might have some peace."

"Aw, come on, you know Firebolt loves you," grinned Rab.

"Like she loves a mouse she's playing with," he replied. He turned to look at the boy in the tub, who hurriedly returned to scrubbing himself. "Did I give you permission to listen to my conversation?"

"Dolph, lighten up," Rab hissed under his breath. "He's just a kid."

"A kid who'd better speed it up if he wants anything to eat," Dolph stated.

For the second time in half an hour he felt a rush of shame, this time for the glint of fear he saw in the boy's eyes. Did he actually believe Dolph would let him starve? Is that the way he'd been raised these last years?

In a gruff tone he added, "Come on, Tim, the food is getting cold. Still got to cut off that shock of hair in your face." He walked off down the hall to the guest room; may as well pick some robes out for the kid to save time.

By the time Tim was groomed and presentable, looking quite handsome in his navy blue slacks and tunic shirt, his hair cropped short like Dolph's and Jorab's, the other children had mostly finished eating. Some of them had already spoken with the reporter and were either resting or sleeping curled up on the chairs and sofa of the living room, though a couple were still at the table. Tim hesitantly approached the table, where Kreacher pulled out a chair for him and shoved him down into it.

In the corner, Sirius and Harry were discussing the merits of Werewolves Anonymous, an idea proposed by Harry to keep the children in touch with each other when they'd been placed in separate homes.

"They already know each other. How's that anonymous?" asked Sirius bluntly.

"It's meant as a support group, modeled after muggle groups," Harry explained. "They'd meet every month or so to talk and enjoy each other's company."

"But it's still inaptly named," Sirius insisted.

"Sirius, it was just an idea. Let it go already!"

Morning was well underway when the men led—or in the cases of the smaller ones, carried—the children to the rooms where they'd sleep. Harry and Sirius left for their auror training, while Rab had to go to work at his veterinary office. Lucius, Draco, and Dolph remained behind for the time being.

"If you two want to sleep, I'll hold down the fort," Dolph offered. The others had been up all night, after all, while he'd got to take a nap before they arrived. Besides, the kids were all asleep, the reporter gone…not like he had a lot to do.

"Thank you, but I will remain alert. I assume the children will rest for the next eight to ten hours, at which time Potter is due back—bringing his dogfather with him, if I am any judge of character," Lucius replied dryly. He smiled slyly despite his weariness. "Once that article in the _Daily Prophet_ is made public, I think we'll all be able to go home."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Kingsley Shacklebolt's face flamed beneath his brown skin. Damn that Malfoy, he'd done it again! He'd gone behind the Ministry's back to the reporters of the _Daily Prophet_ and fed them a skewed story that made him come off looking like a bighearted saint, while the Ministry turned out looking like a bunch of indecisive ninnies who'd let a group of children die rather than act.

He flicked at the smiling face of Lucius Malfoy beside Harry Potter on the front page, and read once again the sections his secretary had highlighted for his benefit:

_"My wife's niece married a werewolf. I am not unsympathetic to their plight. If I can help these poor muggle children, it is my duty to do so, using whatever resources I have at hand. Fortunately, I am blessed with vast amounts of resources."_

"You son of a—" Kingsley growled, trying to control himself. When was the last time an ex-Death Eater gave one damn about a muggle? Yes, he was helping these children, but if he knew Malfoy, it meant there was something in it for him.

_"I can't believe the Ministry is allowing these children to fend for themselves. I'm no proponent of Lucius Malfoy, but at least he's doing something to help them."_

"Harry Potter, you of all people ought to mistrust that man!" Shacklebolt exclaimed. Merely having Harry involved in this scheme, having interviewed him, would put the people on Malfoy's side!

_"I lived with a werewolf for years in school. I wouldn't mind taking home one or two of these kids. It's no problem for me, and I honestly don't see why no one else comes forward. Then again, the wizarding world has a lot of prejudice to account for, as well as injustices to right."_

Well, Kingsley truly couldn't fault Black for that statement. He'd been falsely imprisoned for years without a trial—and he wasn't making a stab at the Minister himself. As for Chadwick Tolman, he'd like to get ahold of his plump little neck.

_"The Ministry ought to be ashamed of itself for its inaction, which could have resulted in the deaths of these innocent children. This reporter has it on good authority that they would have been murdered by vampires had they remained in Spain. We, the people, can only demand that the Ministry step up and appoint aurors as guardians of these children until such time as real families can be found." _ The article went on the state that two of the children would be going home just as soon as the Ministry saw fit to escort them and speak with their families. Before and after pictures of the werewolf gang tugged at the heartstrings.

Kingsley gritted his teeth. He had no choice, he'd have to select aurors and send them over immediately, before the clamour began. Head off the trouble before it gained momentum. With any luck, he could mitigate the damage by running another piece in the _Prophet_, this time lauding the efforts of the Ministry. But to do that, he'd have to get in gear _now_.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Aline, there you are. Watch how cute they are." Eleanor Conn waved her daughter into the room where Aidan and Adriel were lying on a thick blanket on the floor, both of them struggling to propel themselves forward. "They're not even five months and trying to crawl already."

"Yes, they've been doing that for months," Aline said, picking up Aidan to kiss him and hug him, then setting him down to do the same to Adriel. "Determined little critters, aren't they?"

"They get that stubbornness from you," her mother said, nodding to herself. Then she amended, "Although I don't know Severus very well. He does seem pretty rigid, too."

"Mother, must we start?"

"What? As if you don't know what your husband is like?" She knelt on the floor beside the babies. "You are just the cutest little babies in the world," she cooed at them, and they cooed back, smiling and laughing. "It's a good thing you took after your Mommy, huh?"

Adriel stuck out his tongue, and Aline snickered to herself. Sometimes she wished she could do that. She'd hoped that shrinking her mother's tumor would improve her personality, and it had—vastly, in fact—yet the older witch persisted in her little digs. The thing that bothered Aline the most was not so much the vague insults as Eleanor's failure to admit or even notice she was making them. It was infuriating.

"Have you found anything?"

"What? Oh, yes! I found one of the curses listed at the archives, along with the reversal spell. I've written it down, and with any luck the rest will materialize soon. I miss Severus…" She regretted saying it the instant it left her tongue.

"You've been here all of two days and you want to go back already? Can't you send word to him to use the countercurses?' demanded Eleanor.

"I could, I suppose," Aline conceded. "Mom, do you mind watching the boys while I go visit Abby and Alonzo? I've barely got to see them at all."

"Invite them to supper while you're out. They ought to spend some time with their nephews before you leave us."

"I'll do that." She kissed the boys again, said goodbye to her mother, and headed out. Maybe Lonny could help her search the archives for a bit tomorrow, let them spend more time together.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I swear to God, Severus, she's driving me crazy!" Aline griped through the embers of her fire call to her husband.

"Are you sure you aren't seeing more bitchiness than is intended because of past experience?" asked Severus evenly.

"Maybe. She's a lot better than she used to be, and she loves the twins to death. I guess our relationship isn't as easily fixed as I had hoped." She wished she could just collapse in his arms and forget all about it.

"Would you like me to visit the Longbottoms and reverse the curse you found the countercurse for?" he queried, deftly changing the subject. Allowing her to rant on only made her more upset, he'd discovered.

"Would you? Let me know if it makes any impact. Tomorrow I have permission to delve into the most heavily guarded and restricted section, so if our other curses are to be found, it will be there. Wish me luck." She smiled at him, though the distortion of the wood and flames made it more of a comical grimace.

"I'll do that, my darling, though I suspect luck isn't what you need. Talent and intelligence like yours require only diligence, and you've got that in abundance." In the distance he heard Aidan cry, and he said, "You'd better go, sweetheart. Kiss the boys for me. Good night."

"Good night, love." She pulled her face from the fire. It always surprised her how cool it felt away from the embers, for she never let herself dwell on the heat while in there.

She crossed the room to the crib housing her babies and picked up her son. She rapidly checked his diaper, which was dry and odor-free. Aidan clenched at her robe to steady himself as he examined her face, probing and stroking it lovingly, and babbled a stream of unintelligible words that he thought highly amusing as evidenced by his cackling laughter. Aline bent into the crib to stroke Adriel's black fuzz off of his forehead; the sleepy child glanced up at her and grinned.

Well, Aidan had stopped crying, so it was no real distress. "Hungry again, sweetie pie? Let Mommy sit down and you can feed to your heart's desire. In the morning, Mommy will give you some runny rice cereal, and maybe even a dash of yogurt. Yes, I know that sounds yummy!" She gently tweaked his nose and he giggled for her. How she loved these two little men! At least she had the boys; if she'd come alone, this would have been a very stressful trip.


	66. For Crying Out Loud

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 66 (For Crying Out Loud)

**March 5, 1939**

Were Tom not such a proficient student, he'd hate Potions class. All the messing with herbs and slimy things and smelly bits…he could do without any of it. As with all his studies, he excelled at this particular course, though he really didn't care for it—though to be fair it was better than the History of Magic he'd taken last year. However, because his Head of House, Professor Slughorn, taught this class, he had to pretend to like it. He was good at pretending.

He slid his brew off the burner onto the table and waited quietly, trying to blend into the background. He was _not_ so good at that, not when all the teachers constantly picked on him to supply answers and to show off talent. Presently the teacher was to choose a student to test out the potion, and he had little doubt who that person was to be.

He glanced about the classroom as he waited. At the back of the room, a Gryffindor across the aisle snickered as he bent over and slipped a serrated leaf into the cauldron of Tom's housemate, who was busy ogling the boy next to her. He, in turn, was leaning so far off his stool to avoid her that he looked ready to crash to the floor at any moment. Immediately the potion began to bubble and froth, and orange foam came spilling over the edge.

Slughorn, ever attentive for accidents of this sort, waved his wand and the mixture settled down once more. "Miss Dickinson, perhaps you ought to concentrate more on your work," he admonished, to the knowing chuckles of other students.

"I-I didn't do that," she sputtered, confused. "Somebody ruined it!"

The straw haired professor merely clucked his tongue. "Now, don't make excuses. Next time I expect you to pay attention, else you'll be re-doing it after class in detention."

"That's not fair," she protested as her mate elbowed her surreptitiously in the side to make her shut up. She ignored it as she stated loudly, with a hateful look directed at the Gryffindors, "Everyone lets them do whatever they want!"

Slughorn sighed. He disliked doing it, but he mustn't allow the children to argue with him, especially in class. "Five points from Slytherin for cheek."

The rest of the Slytherins seemed torn on whether to glare at their housemate or the ones truly responsible, for not one had a doubt that where there was mischief, a Gryffindor was nearby. Slughorn went on as though nothing had happened.

"Tom, why don't you take a sip of your potion to show us what was supposed to occur?"

As it wasn't really a question so much as an order, he gingerly placed a spoon in the mixture, lifted it to his lips, and took a tiny bit in his mouth. It tasted fruity, not bad at all. The next thing he knew, he had begun to shrink on his stool till he could barely look over the tabletop, and his clothes hung on him. The entire class set to laughing, which infuriated him, and he wasn't quite sure why.

"Excellent job, Riddle!" applauded Slughorn, clapping heartily. He fished a vial from his pocket and held it out to the boy. "Drink this."

Not certain he wanted to follow any more of these ridiculous commands, Tom nonetheless gulped down the potion supplied to him, and in a matter of seconds he was full-sized once more, to his great relief. He'd been afraid it was a concoction to do more ghastly things to his body. In the back of his mind, he was reminded of a muggle story he'd read…what was it? _Alice in Wonderland_. Very strange book, not one he'd mention in wizarding company.

A few minutes later class wrapped up and the students filed out. Tom leaned over to Mulciber and muttered, "Jackson did it. I saw him."

Lewis Mulciber nodded once. Tom watched him run up the corridor to catch the boy, who turned to him when he called his name. They appeared to be discussing something as the other students moved past them and either to the Slytherin common room or up the stairs. When only the three of them remained in the hallway, Mulciber hauled off and punched the other boy hard in the nose, dropping him to the ground with a shriek and a spurt of blood. For good measure, he kicked Jackson while he was down; the Gryffindor curled in a ball to protect himself.

"Don't f—k with us, you little shit," Mulciber growled, sounding much older than barely thirteen. "Get out of our dungeon."

Jackson scrambled to the wall, got up, and ran for the stairs. Tom walked up to his companion, smiling. Here he'd been formulating an intricate plot to get revenge, and Mulciber had done so swiftly and ruthlessly, if less than elegantly. But in the scheme of things it didn't matter; they'd gotten revenge. Wasn't that the important thing?

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 24, 2001**

_March 5, 1939_

_I am so sick of Potions class. If I get called on one more time to try out a brew__, I'm going to scream. Today Slughorn had me shrink to the size of that little prick who beat me in dueling—Flitwick. It was horrible. _

_ Mulciber beat up Jackson for tampering with Jessie's cauldron. She lost five points for the House because of that filthy Gryffindor sabotaging her potion—and Slughorn does nothing about it! I wonder sometimes if Dumbledore has ordered him to let the rest of the teachers and students torment us. One day I__'d like to wreak vengeance on them all like Mulciber did today, only in a more graceful and spectacular fashion. I'm really not pugilistically gifted._

An unbidden guest in Tom's head spouted off. _I'm surprised you'd admit such a thing. With your ego, I should think you'd take credit for being gifted at everything._

It was _her_, that blasted girl who thought she owned this body! She wasn't getting it, and the sooner she accepted it, the better for all involved.

"Get out of my head!" Tom whacked himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Stop it!" came a girl's voice. Her right hand smacked his left.

He slapped her right back, and within a second they were going at it like…well, children, slapping back and forth and shrieking at each other.

Standing beside Snape, peeking in through the window of the infirmary door at the sight of Therese maltreating herself, Minerva gave a shocked gasp. Her bony hand clung to the doorframe, squeezing so hard Severus feared she might break off a chunk of it.

"Minerva, you can let go of that any time," he said. He didn't worry that Tom or Therese might hear, as he'd sent up a silencing charm before they approached.

"Severus, we've got to stop her. She might hurt herself!" insisted Minerva.

"When is the last time you heard of anyone slapping themselves senseless?" he countered. He didn't like it, either, but it was what it was. "When Tom gets tired of hitting himself, he'll stop."

Minerva hesitated, then burst out, "Is this what happened to you when Tom took over your mind?"

At first he considered not responding; it was a subject that brought nothing but bad memories. He'd prefer not to discuss it, but since she'd asked, he answered wryly, "More or less. My version of Tom was much stronger, more mature—we argued more, fought less, tried to kill my companions. You know, the usual."

He fished into the voluminous pockets of his robe and withdrew the Marauders Map. Spreading it out so they both could look, he pointed to the spot in the infirmary where Tom was presently berating the girl sharing his brain. To his fascination and unbridled relief, it read 'Tomese Ridbecker'. Minerva shot him a confused expression.

"It's a good sign," he said, barely containing a wide grin. "Tom may still be in control, but the two are splitting. And if the scene in there is any indication, she's a fighter."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Bayly squinted as he examined the extensive formula again; the scrawling handwriting was not always easy to read. At length he dropped two minced newt eyes into the bubbling mixture. So far so good. He wasn't exactly sure why it had that glossy purple sheen on top, since it wasn't mentioned in the instructions, but when Professor Snape got here he'd explain. Meanwhile, Bayly would do his best to make his mentor…his dad proud. Not many wizards his age had ever attempted Wolfsbane potion—hell, not many Potions masters in the world had tried it, he imagined. Why would they unless they needed to supply a werewolf? And because it had to be drunk no more than four hours after brewing, it couldn't be kept on the shelf like some potions. More than one of the ingredients were dreadfully expensive, not something you wasted for fun.

He grinned and sat heavily on a stool. This was fun, though. He'd thought it would be torture to make this potion, and here he found himself enjoying it. A laugh escaped him, and he laughed again because he had no idea why he'd done it to begin with. He decidedly liked the smell of the Wolfsbane, a smoky cross between honey blossoms and raw earth. He drew in a deep breath, allowing the scent to fill his nostrils. Mmmm, nice.

"Bayly, I see you've begun without me." The daunting tone of Severus' voice cut through the air much like the time he'd caught the boy playing with his jars of deformed creatures in the lab.

The young man bolted upright guiltily, though he didn't know what he was guilty of. All he'd done was start practicing to make the Wolfsbane potion, as they'd agreed. "Yes, sir. I wanted to see if I could do it alone. And I thought you'd like me to take in—institution…inuit…initial. No—"

"Initiative?" Severus supplied, frowning. Bayly was clever enough to not only know the word, but to use it properly, for crying out loud.

"Yes!" Bayly exclaimed, giving a hard clap of his hands on the table. He chortled as he spun round on the stool.

Severus covered the distance between them in short order and glanced into the cauldron. "Purple gloss on top? I thought you were making Wolfsbane."

"I am." Bayly clumsily gathered together the pages of the formula and snatched them up, shoving them into the professor's face so close he had to step back to focus. "See? Right here it says _Wolfsbane_."

Snape seized the papers from the lad's hand, slammed them onto the table, and growled, "What in bloody hell is going on? Are you drunk?"

Bayly recoiled, aghast. "No! I wouldn't drink in the lab, and certainly not while making a potion." His hazel eyes teared up. How could his beloved mentor think such a thing of him? It was…it was _mean_.

Severus sternly took his apprentice by the jaw and lifted his face, peering into the lad's eyes. Dilated pupils, groggy appearance, erratic and uninhibited behaviour: it signified some form of drug use. No, Bayly wasn't the sort to seek out muggle dope. Overexposure to the black locust leaves via chopping, inhaling the odor, and physically handling could cause the dilated pupils, but not the other symptoms. But really, did it matter that much? The kid was having a good time, and he wasn't hurting anything.

He let go of Bayly and turned back to the cauldron. It smelled very nice, much better than the Wolfsbane he'd made in the past. Maybe the boy had invented a new form, with better ingredients to make it more palatable. He was clearly bright enough. Snape inhaled deeply the intoxicating odor. At the irony of the word in conjunction with his initial belief that Bayly had been drunk, a giggle escaped him. Bayly stared, then burst into laughter.

"I think you did it wrong," Severus said, dropping onto the stool beside his apprentice. "But I like this version. We can see where it ends up."

"I did what it says," Bayly contradicted him, tapping his finger on the parchments on the table. "See here? It says add tulip of black…something." He nodded in agreement with himself.

At that Severus roared in mirth, holding his sides. When he'd caught his breath he choked out, "You doofus. It says add two lips of black bat!"

Bayly bent over the formula, scrutinizing it blearily. "Oh. The writing is awful."

"That's my writing," Severus retorted.

"I rest my case," Bayly snorted. "Like a freaking spider walking up and down the page till you get dizzy. Anyway, I added a black tulip." He dissolved into snickers.

"Which explains a lot. Tulip reacts with unicorn blood and makes really awesome fumes that are currently getting us pissed," Severus guffawed.

"It's not gonna poison us, is it?" asked Bayly, smiling so wide his face nearly split.

"Nah, don't worry about it," Severus assured him with an uncharacteristically demonstrative pat to Bayly's shoulder. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so unburdened, so _free_. In the back of his mind he recognized that the sensation was caused by the fumes he was presently breathing, allowing him to set aside his troubles and fears if only for a short while. At the moment he just didn't care.

Bayly gazed at the hand resting on his shoulder. Professor Snape wasn't an affectionate man—not to him, anyway—nor to anyone else except his wife and children. His heart swelled and he exclaimed, "I love you, sir."

"I love you, too, son," replied the man, not moving his hand.

Without thinking, Bayly lurched forward and threw his arms around the Potions master, something he'd dare not do under ordinary circumstances. The older wizard had made it quite plain ages ago that he was not in the habit of hugging his students or ex-students, and that he felt uncomfortable displaying such open emotion. At the moment, Bayly didn't care. To his surprise, Severus embraced him in return and patted his back heartily.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Bayly squeaked, pointing at the black smoke starting to billow from the brew. The liquid had begun to undulate as if a rodent had found refuge in it and was exploring its surroundings.

Severus twisted his head. "No." He spun round so quickly that Bayly was thrown clear and smacked into the adjoining table as the Headmaster yanked out his wand and vanished the potion before it exploded. He heaved a mighty sigh and sank back onto his stool. "I think we need to get out of here, son. And next time, wait for me before you begin the Wolfsbane."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 24, 2001**

Deep under the Salem Library for Witches and Warlocks, in a circular, claustrophobia-inspiring space, lay the fortified archives containing the most ancient and precious of Salem's manuscripts, books, and scrolls. At the single table wedged into the area, Aline and her brother Alonzo bent over their task, the table before them spread with a variety of tomes. Most of the stone walls were lined from floor to ceiling with hand-written volumes, with specific sections dedicated to Europe, Egypt, Asia, and a lesser portion to the United States. The smallest sector dealt entirely with those spells and curses originating in or around Salem itself. The only part without books was the door, where two burly wizards stood guard.

"The air is so close in here," Lonny commented, lifting his head and glancing about. He'd never liked being in enclosed spots.

"I know it's heavy and oppressive, but hopefully we won't be here that long," Aline answered, trying to sound upbeat. After all, there weren't that many books or manuscripts from the Salem area, which was likely where the spells had their beginning, judging by the etymology.

She looked longingly about at the wealth of information setting on the rest of the shelves. One day she'd have to come back with Severus; he'd have no trouble with clearance, now that the world knew of his part in Britain's wizarding war. And he'd be in second heaven with all this new and exciting information to digest.

"Aline! I think I found it!" Alonzo exclaimed, jabbing animatedly at a paragraph in a book so old the pages were crumbling on the edges. He shoved it over for her to take a look.

She muttered to herself as she rapidly skimmed the text. Her eyes lit on _sweyen to min willa_, and a smile involuntarily burst forth. That was indeed one of the three spells Jorab had told her about! She'd previously found _revelio knouleche_, although the reversal had apparently had no effect on the Longbottoms. In the paragraph below she found the countercurse, and was grateful she had, for it didn't bear much resemblance to what she had tried on her own with the damaged couple.

"_Onwaecnian eower ahnian willa_," she said softly, rolling the words over her tongue.

"Regain your own will," Lonny quoted, grinning. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"We did, just not exactly in those words," said Aline. "I expected to use _ontdoen_, or maybe _demaunden_. There are so many variables, so many possibilities."

"Now you can send it to Severus, and hopefully it will do the trick." Lonny shot a longing gaze at the door. They weren't yet finished.

They returned to their research, heads bowed, eyes moving swiftly over the pages. Manuscripts were replaced by others till their eyes burned in their sockets from studying in the dim light. At last, her heart beating a mile a minute, Aline devoured page after page of a story involving a wizard who'd used a particular curse to destroy the minds of those he considered his enemies. Seven men and women had been devastated by it in the 1700s before the wizard had been caught and brought to justice. When she finally reached the curse he'd used,_ gemynd derein_, she let out an ecstatic squeak. Her joy was short lived, for in the final paragraph it stated that there was no known countercurse to the heinous spell.

"Oh, crap," she said, flinging herself back in her chair.

Lonny dragged the book to himself to read whatever had bothered his sister. By the time he'd done, he was scowling. "That's unfortunate. If this other spell doesn't work, those poor people are screwed."

"Unless we can find a Medicine Man who happens to know how to dissolve the curse," she agreed dourly. She indicated the asterisk at the top of the next page, where someone had noted in different handwriting in the margin that local shamans had been able to lift various curses. "What chance do we have of finding an Indian healer in today's world? I don't recall learning in school about it."

Lonny grinned again, this time in amusement. "You really were sheltered, dear sister. Surely you're aware the muggle tribes who lived in this area back then still live here today. There are fewer of them, but they're the same tribes, the same blood. If they follow their customs, surely they must have Medicine Men among them."

Hope! Aline sat up straighter, her enthusiasm returning. "Since I'm here, it's worth a shot to find out. Right?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 26, 2001**

Lucius was cheerful, for more reasons than one. He'd pulled a massive publicity stunt that had, as predicted, elevated the Malfoy name another notch or two in the eyes of Britain, while simultaneously giving a symbolic black eye to the Ministry of Magic. Yes, indeed, a good day's work. That had been three days ago, and he was still a bit giddy from the attention. In fact, on the streets of London he'd crossed paths with a witch who on prior occasions had taken pains to let him know she reviled him, and this time she hadn't cringed, snarled, or traversed the street to avoid being seen near him. Yes, indeed, a good day's work. He'd crawl his way back to the very top of the social ladder if it was the last thing he did.

His plan had come together even better than he'd hoped; already two of the children—the nine-year-olds Roger and Brooke—had been returned to their families. Yesterday the dark haired boy, Tim, had been shuffled off to a foster home after the Ministry had investigated and interviewed them at length, and the sister/brother team of Charlotte and Henry had been taken in by none other than Harry Potter and his dogfather! Priceless. You just couldn't buy publicity like that. Well, technically Lucius had bought it, but that was beside the point.

There was only one werewolf left to place in a home, mainly because being the youngest and rather a pretty child, Marcus had had numerous offers. The Ministry needed time to investigate each home. Lucius' coup de grace was about to be unveiled: he'd adopt the boy, zip to the pinnacle of society, and live happily ever after. If only he'd learned while working for the dark lord that plans were made to be hindered…

"So you're telling me you want to bring this muggle boy into our home? A _muggle_, Lucius?" Narcissa demanded, searing him with that fiery glare which irritated and sort of intimidated him.

"Narcissa, you must put aside that fact. They can't help what they are," he began magnanimously, motioning for her to come snuggle with him. "This affair couldn't have come at a better time. The Malfoy name is being redeemed in leaps and bounds—"

"You have got to be kidding me! You're the biggest supremacist I know!" Narcissa shrieked. She scooted further from him in bed, and turned to face him with a scowl on her face.

"Dolph and Marshal are every bit as bad—" Lucius began in his own defense, to be shouted over by his wife.

"You'd risk the lives of your family—_your_ _children_—at the hands of a werewolf because it will make your _bloody name look good_?" By the time she finished, she was screeching like a banshee. He instinctively raised one arm up round his head, to protect himself in the event she decided to batter home her point.

Wearing a hurt expression, he retreated both physically and verbally with, "Of course not. I'd never willingly endanger my family, you know that. He's a clever, charming child, and he'd be watched very carefully. And I thought I'd gotten better about the way I think of and treat muggles and muggleborns." He plainly could not let that slight go.

"And if he bit one of our babies?" she snipped, crossing her arms and glaring.

"I spoke to Severus about this." Bad thing to say, he thought immediately. Talking to another before speaking with HER. Hurriedly he went on, "Werewolf bites are not detrimental unless the person has changed form into a werewolf. So Marcus would be as harmless as any other seven-year-old." Time to appeal to her maternal instincts and natural affinity for beauty. "You've seen Marcus, Narcissa. He's young, easily trained, intelligent, and frankly his good looks make him fit right in with our family. Yes, he's got golden hair, but it's close enough. His eyes are a gorgeous, startling blue, like a calm ocean…like yours."

She fidgeted lightly. "Don't try flattering me to weasel out of this. And being 'pretty' isn't reason enough to adopt someone."

He leaned in to pull her closer. "Darling, the truth is I like the boy, I feel sympathy for him. I know I'm not supposed to, it's not what 'pureblood supremacists' do, but…I like him, and I want to help him."

"It worries me, Lucius."

Lucius took a deep breath, studying his wife. She was right to some extent; he was a manipulator, born and raised. He didn't deny that, nor that he'd naturally use a situation to his advantage. She'd always loved that about him, so that wasn't the problem. She also loved children, and he could see that she even had a soft spot for this muggle lad. If he was being honest with himself, he'd admit her prejudice against non-purebloods had been overcome much more easily than his own, even after Granger's assistance in saving Narcissa's life. He had to conclude that she truly was worried about having a werewolf in the house, despite her bravado for the public. Having her father mauled to death by the creatures probably had something to do with that.

"I understand, love. There are plenty of others who wish to take in the boy, it isn't as though he'll be suffering." For a reason he didn't quite fathom, he had a strange, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Let's go to sleep. It's been a long day."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but I didn't know who else to call at this hour," the young auror apologized as Lucius strode into his beach house and slammed the door with a resounding rattle. In spite of being two o'clock in the morning, Lucius had dressed impeccably and fixed his hair, as usual. Mustn't let the riffraff see him in disarray if at all possible to avoid.

Lucius returned a withering stare. Did everyone just assume that having been a Death Eater made him a night owl? One didn't maintain a pleasant, attractive appearance like his without proper sleep. "No, we couldn't conceivably call upon your superior, or perhaps the Minister himself. What is the crisis?"

"Marcus," said the young wizard nervously, gesturing toward the door to his right. "I had to put up a silencing charm; I couldn't bear hearing him cry like that."

Rolling his eyes, shaking his head in disgust, and resisting a strong urge to punch the man in the face, Lucius stormed into the indicated room. Or tried to, but it had been locked. He whipped out his wand, unlocked the door with some difficulty (for his hand kept trying to fix on the auror to hex his stupid arse), and entered to find the small child lying in a ball on the floor, in hysterical tears. In two strides he was across the room, cradling the boy to his chest. Marcus lifted his head, recognized the blond wizard, and threw his arms round his neck as he wept.

"What the hell did you do to him?" hissed Lucius.

"Nothing! He just started, and I couldn't stop him," answered the other. His terrified, wide eyes revealed the truth of it.

Ignoring now the idiot who'd been placed in charge, Lucius picked up the lad and carried him to the sofa, then sat down with Marcus on his lap, the boy still bawling helplessly. In a very soft voice he said, "Marcus, you know who I am, right?" When the child nodded, he continued, "Tell me what's wrong."

Marcus sobbed for a few more minutes before regaining some control. His sobs turned to halting gasps, accompanied by sniffling. He lifted his tearstained face from Lucius' chest, his blue eyes red-rimmed and puffy from an obviously extended bout of crying.

"They're all gone," he whispered, letting his head droop almost back onto the man's chest again. His lips trembled.

"Who?"

"My pack," Marcus replied, and another massive sob racked his body. "The vampires—killed them all—and now—the rest—left me!" The weeping returned with a vengeance.

From force of habit when his own offspring cried, Lucius pressed Marcus to him gently but firmly, and rocked him back and forth in a soothing rhythm. Why hadn't the adults—himself included—taken into account how the deaths of ten to fifteen of their mates must have emotionally devastated the little band of werewolves? And then to top it off, they'd wrenched them from one another, separated them when they needed familiarity…family. Lucius, like probably everyone else involved, had been so focused on making things 'better' for the kids that they'd forgotten who the children considered to be family. Were the rest of the children suffering from this withdrawal, this grief at being torn apart? He dared suppose they were.

"Marcus, listen to me. Charlotte, Henry, Tim, Brooke, Roger—they're all fine. No one has hurt them, and you will see them again. I can arrange to have you meet them."

The blond head lifted from Lucius' chest once more. "You can?"

"Of course I can. Tomorrow I'll take you to visit with Charlotte and Henry. I'd need time to set up appointments for the others, though," explained Lucius.

"I don't wanna be here alone," whined the boy, cuddling so close his sharp elbow poked uncomfortably into Lucius' ribcage.

Lucius was about to mention that he wasn't alone, he had this fine auror to keep him company, only it was simply too ridiculous to expect the boy to buy such rubbish. If that infernal auror had locked him away once, who was to say he'd not do it again? "You'll come home with me for now. I'll look after you till they find you a good home."

The surprisingly strong arms of the skinny child looped about his neck again, this time in gratitude. Lucius stood up with the boy still clutching tightly to him, his legs wrapped firmly about the man's waist. Draping one arm round the lad, he walked to the fireplace, then turned to address the auror who looked poised to protest. "I am going to my manor. Shacklebolt knows where to find me."

He took a pinch of floo powder, tossed it into the flames as he spoke his destination, and the two were whisked away. As he strode out of the flames on the other end, Marcus crowing in awe about the ride they'd just taken, he winced. For Merlin's sake, he'd discussed this with his wife not three hours ago, and here he was showing up at the manor with the miniature werewolf in tow. Narcissa was going to have his head on a platter.


	67. Sanctuary

18

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 67 (Sanctuary)

**January 27, 2001**

Narcissa was already in the dining room, lifting the children from their highchairs and passing them into Sisidy's care, when Lucius shuffled to the entrance with the little werewolf boy in front of him. She thought it fitting he placed the child ahead of him, as if to protect his vital areas in the event she went ballistic on him again, as she had last night when he informed her of what he'd done. Hadn't they agreed it was a bad idea to bring Marcus here? Yes, he'd been hysterical, and she understood Lucius lavishing compassion on him, but still….

She turned her head ever so slightly to take in the pair. The lad was handsome, Lucius hadn't lied about that. His golden hair curled about his collar much like Abraxas' used to, and he looked so adorable in that replica of grown-up robes that she wanted to snatch him to her breast. He seemed much better behaved than she'd expected; perhaps she'd gone overboard in her mental painting of the werewolf cubs as total savages. They were human _most_ of the time, and had been raised around other people, if only other children—and Greyback. He scarcely qualified as human. While Greyback had apparently run a tight ship, kept the kids in line through force and fear, she didn't dare hope the boy had learned any table manners under such circumstances.

"Good morning, Miss Narcissa," chirped Marcus. Lucius' hands lay on his shoulders, squeezing gently as if to award approval.

"Hello, Marcus. Did you have a good night?"

"Yes, ma'am." Good, he had learned that much about etiquette, though she suspected Lucius' hand in it.

"I didn't," Lucius chimed in, to be wholly ignored by his wife. He'd been ordered out of their bed and compelled to sleep alone in the guest room next to Marcus, where he'd heard the child thrashing about quite a lot in the night. That, and he felt wretched about being on the outs with his beloved.

"I'm sorry if I'm in the way. I don't mean to be trouble," said Marcus in a tiny voice.

Narcissa sneaked a glance at Lucius. "Did my husband tell you to say that?"

"Yes," he answered, even as Lucius was shaking his head vehemently and trying to appear above suspicion.

Amused at the boy's candour, his innocent honesty, she graced him with a smile. "Come sit down, little one. You're no trouble to me." _Though you may be to Lucius, come the full moon_. "Let's have a nice breakfast, then we can go for a walk in the garden."

"It's cold outside," the boy offered, not as complaining, merely observing.

He came and sat on the chair the nice lady had pulled out for him. Mr. Malfoy sat beside him and handed him a pointy metal thing…he should know this…a spoon. No, wait—a fork. It felt very strange in his fist. In the pack, they ate with their fingers…when they ate.

"Hold it like this," Lucius instructed him, demonstrating with his own implement. The boy strove futilely to obey, until finally Lucius reached over and positioned it correctly for him. "Watch the way I use it, and you copy me."

The first several minutes were fraught with disappointment and frustration as Marcus attempted to not only get food on the fork, but get it to stay there long enough to reach his mouth. Already numerous blobs of egg and fried potato lay scattered across his plate and the formerly sparkling white table cloth. It made him feel bad to ruin the pretty cloth this way—and he was hungry! He slipped a bit of potato off the cloth and rammed it into his mouth with his left hand when he thought Mr. Malfoy wasn't looking.

"Lucius, that's enough for now. Let him eat," Narcissa said. She wasn't jumping for joy at the prospect of watching the boy shovel the food in like an animal, either, yet if they didn't change tactics he was likely to burst into tears.

"I can do it, Miss Narcissa," insisted Marcus, balancing a forkful of egg on the way to his mouth. As if to prove his point, he managed to get most of it in before some spilled down his chest. He grinned at them as he chewed happily. "Mmmm, yummy."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Lucius said automatically. Having had it drilled into him in his youth, and then repeating it ad nauseam to his own children, it slipped out effortlessly. His face softened a touch. The boy really was trying, he wanted to make them proud. He hoped Narcissa could appreciate that.

"Good job, Marcus," Narcissa said. Her eyes met her husband's and she smiled sadly. What were they going to do with this sweet, lonely little boy?

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Master Malfoy, a Minister Shacklebolt wantsing to see you," Cinchona said from her position at the door to his study. She hopped from one foot to the other in a nervous tizzy, sensing her master's sudden discomfort.

Lucius froze in place. He'd assumed this was coming, though he was slightly appalled at how quickly it had come; he'd naively hoped the Minister would have the decency to leave it be for the sake of the child.

Pushing aside the accounts he'd been working on with Regulus, Lucius got to his feet and motioned for the young Black to do the same. "Cinchona, keep him occupied. I will be there in a moment." After the elf scampered off to her task, he fixed his protégé with a serious gaze. "I need your help, Regulus. The Minister is here to collect Marcus. I've told you the state I found the boy in, and if we return him to the Ministry's guardianship, I fear for his safety."

Reg nodded once, understanding without being explicitly told. He was to fetch the boy and get him the hell out of there until Lucius let him know it was safe to return. "I'll go—" he began.

Lucius interrupted with, "I don't wish to know where you go or how you get there. The less I know, the less I can reveal."

"Got it." Reg walked to the door of the study, turned to give Lucius a thumbs-up, and ran toward the staircase. He bolted up them two at a time and raced down the hall to the playroom where he knew Narcissa had been playing with Marcus and the babies. Sure enough, all three children were there.

"Hey, Cissy. Hey, rugrats. Lucius says we gotta go." Not having time to waste on explanations, he simply grabbed Marcus by the arm, and was rushing out the door when he heard the sound of boots pounding up the stairs. He knew instinctively it wasn't Lucius, and that his opportunity to spirit the boy out the back way had vanished. He yanked Marcus back into the room and approached the far wall. "Cissy, is that secret cubby still there?"

"Yes, sort of," she said, hurrying to the wall which she and Lucius had previously sealed to prevent her children disappearing through. "He can't go through alone, Reg. It's a blood ward. Only Blacks and Malfoys."

"I'll go with him."

"Okay." She murmured a spell under her breath, tapped the wall, and shoved the young man through, Marcus in tow. Whatever was going on, Reg wouldn't be desperate to escape unless it was very important. If Lucius had told him to take Marcus and flee, there had to be a good reason for it.

She returned to the miniature castle where Ladon had holed up and was poking a flimsy, dull wooden 'spear' out the window as he shouted his warrior cries. Khala, paying no heed to her brother, was entertaining herself by clumsily dressing Sisidy in a lovely lavender gown and bonnet that made the elf look like a grotesque, bug-eyed doll. Narcissa had been careful to explain to Sisidy beforehand that Khala was not _giving_ her the clothing, merely letting her dress in it, to assuage the poor elf's fear of being set free. From inside the secret room, scarcely breathing, Reg watched through the seemingly transparent wall with his hand over Marcus' mouth, as two aurors burst into the room, wands drawn. He found his hand itching to reach for his own wand. How dare they traumatize Cissy and her babies!

Narcissa stood up, blue eyes like a stormy sea. In a positively frigid tone she clipped, "Who are you, and what do you think you're doing in my house? I'll have the Ministry after you!"

"We are from the Ministry," sneered one of them, a youngish man with a cowlick and a poor sense of style. His attempt at Western chic came off more as bumpkin elegance.

The female auror, older and obviously more experienced, gave her comrade a push and indicated that he ought to be searching. "Mrs. Malfoy, Minister Shacklebolt has sent us to collect the werewolf your husband stole away last night."

"You mean the tiny boy who was sobbing uncontrollably because he'd been locked in a room alone?" asked Narcissa imperiously. It gave her a hint of satisfaction to note the woman pause, shocked. Evidently no one had seen fit to tell her that part. "If that is the way the Ministry treats its guests, I'm sure the public at large would be interested to read it. In fact, I think I'll send the editor of the _Prophet_ an owl now."

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Malfoy." Shacklebolt sauntered in, with Lucius directly on his heels. Seeing nothing amiss, Lucius' face registered the tiniest bit of relief. "Just hand over the boy. I guarantee he will be treated well."

"As opposed to how we treat him?" Lucius demanded, stepping in front to shield his wife and children. Although he'd not drawn his wand, he'd stealthily pulled his outer robe back, allowing swift access if necessary.

Shacklebolt, his jaunty cap ever looking ready to fall, glared at the other wizard. "Soon we'll find a home for him. Until such time, we'd like to place him with a family who can care for him—"

It was as far as he got before Lucius snarled, "You've got to be bloody joking! I saved that boy from death! I arranged for Wolfsbane to be made and delivered to all those children, I opened my home to Marcus when _your auror_ left him weeping hysterically on the floor of a locked room, so don't you _dare_ insinuate that I don't care!"

Kingsley blinked a few times, gobsmacked by the vitriolic reaction. Khala and Ladon, who until now had continued their games as if nothing were going on, looked up at their father in consternation. He'd said a bad word and was shouting at the brown man; Father never shouted, he was sweet and kind.

Lucius took the opportunity to continue. "My wealth and resources can give Marcus anything and everything he needs. You will not find a family better able to 'care for' him. Lest I remind you, your own auror fell down on the job; what makes you so sure another appointee will be any better?" He twisted his head to address his wife. "I quite agree, love. Chadwick Tolman would love to hear about this travesty of justice."

The tables had turned in the space of a minute. Shacklebolt, seething below the surface, forced himself to smile. All he or the Ministry needed right now was another piece in the _Prophet_ decrying his ability to lead or to properly take care of those under his supposed protection. "Let's not be hasty."

"And forcibly entering my manor to kidnap a child who is happy here would be what? Well thought out?" asked Lucius sarcastically.

"You must understand, Malfoy, that once a family is found among the applicants, we will be sending the child to them," Kingsley ground out through clenched teeth. "We—the Ministry—cannot and will not allow him to be raised by an ex-Death Eater. Even if the public sides with you on sympathy now, they will agree with us on that."

"Then we will deal with that when the time comes," retorted Lucius.

Long, awkward pause wherein neither side knew who should speak. At length Shacklebolt said, "I'd like to see the boy, make sure he is well."

"He's fine," Lucius growled back. "How do I know you won't simply drag him away if I produce him?"

"I could have you arrested, Malfoy," Kingsley threatened.

Lucius arched a fine, blond brow. "That wouldn't bring Marcus back, would it? Nor would it stop the flood of bad press. I mean, already one of the children you parceled out to a family has disappeared. I wonder what the outcry would be if another were to go missing."

Kingsley took a deep, steadying breath. He hated dealing with Malfoy on a good day, and this was shaping up to be a very NOT good day. What ground his gears even worse was that Malfoy was right: the boy named Tim had run off, according to those he'd been placed with. Thus far, his aurors had found neither hide nor hair of him, and it worried Kingsley—and every other citizen—that the kid might be loose come the full moon. If Marcus 'disappeared' as well, the people would demand action, and he had none to offer. "You have my word, my wizard's oath, that no one will try to take him from you before a home is found for him."

It being the best he could have hoped for, Lucius nodded. "Come downstairs. I will send my elf to fetch the boy. And don't bother to ask her, she won't reveal where he was."

Lucius waited till the Minister and both aurors had gone before winking at his wife and following them out. He honestly didn't know where Marcus was, whether Reg had been able to get him out in time, or if he was hidden somewhere in the mansion. Surely they'd not had time to search around very much. When the small group stood in front of the door, Lucius called for Sisidy. She popped in still wearing the silly lavender outfit.

"Go find Marcus and bring him here. Do not allow anyone to take him from you." Lucius smirked at the last, a dig at Shacklebolt implying his wizard's oath might be somehow defective. With the elf holding onto the boy, he had little fear of anyone stealing him, for Sisidy could apparate out in a way the rest could not. Now all he had to do was let the Minister see the kid…and figure out how in hell he was going to keep Marcus once a 'suitable' home was found.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Knock. Knock. Knock._ Regulus tapped his foot impatiently. It was cold out, he'd been through a harrowing experience, and he wanted in, damn it! _Pound. Pound. Pound!_

The door was opened not by a surly elf, but by Sirius himself, rubbing his eyes as though he'd been napping. Nonetheless, he couldn't resist teasing his dear little brother. Blocking the entrance, he relaxed against the frame and cooed, "Reg. Aren't you supposed to be working?"

Through chattering teeth the younger said, "It's my day off."

"What about Malfoy? I thought you were doing some business training with him."

"We're finished for today. Let me in." He shoved Sirius, who laughed and shoved back, until Reg scampered under his arm—and Sirius caught sight of the boy waiting on the stoop.

"What the—why is he here?"

Regulus waved the boy in; Marcus tentatively scooted round Sirius and into Reg's waiting protective arm. "Lucius promised him he'd get to see Charlotte and Henry. He's not been adopted yet, and he's lonely. It's a long story, I'll fill you in while they visit."

"Go on in, I'll get them," said Sirius. "Kreacher is at your house, by the way, so if you need him, call loud. He won't come for me."

Sirius disappeared up the stairs, and a minute later the stairway reverberated with the sound of feet scrambling down. Charlotte gave a pleased cry and scooped Marcus into a hug, while ten-year-old Henry merely smiled and hung back. They shuffled their pack mate up the stairs, leaving the brothers to discuss today's earlier events. By the time Reg had done describing the Shacklebolt debacle, Sirius' mouth hung open in consternation.

"Keep gawping like that and a fly will get in," Reg commented.

"I can't believe this," Sirius exclaimed, shaking his head. "Why is the Ministry being such arseholes about these kids? I can't stand Malfoy as much as the next bloke, but if he is being good to Marcus and helping him, I don't see the problem."

"I like Lucius," Regulus retorted stiffly.

"Whatever. My point is that as long as Malfoy isn't hurting the kid, why get all bent out of shape? And I'd like to know the name of that auror who left Marcus crying like that!"

"I'm sure you could find out if you tried," Reg smiled. His brother was in training to become an auror, he'd have no trouble discovering who was responsible—and if there was any justice in the world, he might leave that moron sobbing for good measure. "Got anything to eat? All this talking has got me famished."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**January 28, 2001**

Acting on reliable information gathered at a muggle public library, Aline and Lonny apparated to the outskirts of Andover, searched about to get their bearings, then took off in the direction of the Chappaquiddick Tribe of the Wampanoag Indian Nation. They'd even managed to figure out how to use a muggle pay phone—she must remember to brag about that to Severus when she got back!—in order to make an appointment with the Medicine Man of the tribe.

Alonzo balanced his wand on the glove covering his palm. "Point me White Elk." His wand spun, stopped pointing east, spun again and pointed south, and spun once more to land on west. "Damn it, there must be more than one White Elk."

"You think?" Aline said, smirking. Either that or his wand had gone berserk, which seemed unlikely. "There are a lot of Indian descendants here; for all we know, that name is as common as Cornelius is to wizards." She pointed west. "I think he is this way."

"I still wish we'd gone to Gay Head," Lonny sulked, his breath coming out in short bursts of white.

"Why? This community is closer, and that one is on an island. It would be even more frigid."

"Yeah, but I wanted to see Squibnocket Point," Lonny answered, grinning. "You've got to admit, the name is intriguing."

"I doubt it had anything to do with witches or wizards," she said, brushing aside a cluster of tall weeds that had become weighted down by snow to wade through a section of woods.

They traipsed along in silence for a while, till suddenly the forest opened up before them into a clearing; a small round structure made of sticks and bark stood directly in front of them. Smoke rose from a hole in the center. A man came out of the hut, bent over, and stood up to full height, staring at them. He was tall, lanky, his long grey hair pulled into braids on either side of his head, and he wore fur-lined boots and a warm parka over blue jeans.

Aline stopped short, and her brother ran smack into her. She turned to glare at him before addressing the man. "Um…hello. Are you White Elk?"

"Yes. I am the pau wau—what you call the Medicine Man." The man smiled knowingly. He'd seen the same expression a hundred times. "You seem surprised. Did you expect I'd be wearing feathers and a breechclout, ready for a rain dance?"

"W-well, I—you—we…yeah. Kind of," she stammered, blushing.

He laughed, a low, warm chuckle. "FYI, we don't do rain dances. Those are for the plains Indians. You must be Aline."

"Forgive me," she said, collecting herself. "Yes, I'm Aline Snape, and this is my brother Lon—"

"Alonzo Conn," he said, stepping forward, hand out. "You can call me Lonny. Everyone else does."

"Welcome Aline and Lonny. Would you like to come inside, or perhaps sit by the fire?"

"Love to," said Lonny, shivering and shaking the snow off his boots. "She made us walk through the woods."

"It was the straightest path," Aline defended herself. She was cold, though. She gratefully followed the Indian into his hut, where the warmth struck her immediately. It was very small, and seemed uncharacteristically bare. "Do you live here?"

"No. This is where I conduct most of my curative ceremonies. You mentioned you had a curse you needed removed." He waved at them to sit, which they did on a thick bearskin rug.

"That's right," Aline agreed, nodding. On the telephone White Elk had said he believed in witches, so there was no point in pretending to be muggles, as it would only hamper the process anyway. May as well get right to the heart of the matter. "Some friends of my husband were cursed very badly by a particularly loathsome and powerful witch, and we haven't been able to find a countercurse to undo the damage. We found counters for two of the curses, but the third…" Here she shook her head sadly.

"The book said it had none," Lonny filled in. "It also said native Medicine Men were able to lift it."

"The book?" asked White Elk, rather confused. He'd met many women, and some men, claiming to be witches; they generally tended to be of the Wiccan variety who were at one with nature, not plowing through it in the forest. They didn't dress like this, in long eighteenth century style coats, and none of them had spoken of countercurses—spells to counter, yes, but the way these two spoke was different. Strange. They didn't even mention rituals, which were a cornerstone of the witchcraft he was accustomed to. "Did you say you were a witch?"

"Yes, I am," Aline confirmed.

"And I'm a wizard," Lonny added.

"I see," White Elk answered. He chewed thoughtfully on his lip. "What level are you?"

The siblings looked at each other, bemused. Aline cocked her head as she said, "I don't follow. We're adults, we've gone through school, so we're fully trained, if that's what you mean."

"They have schools to train you? I thought it was more apprentice-oriented."

"Some families homeschool," Aline replied, beginning to understand. "Most send their children to be trained. Lonny and I and all our family attended the Salem School. But there are numerous others in the United States and around the world."

"And what processes have you tried in removing the curses?" asked White Elk.

"Well, my husband used Legilimency to look into their minds—he's a Legilimens," she added proudly. They were rare, after all. "He said they're basically a train wreck from the damage Bellatrix inflicted on them. We've tried reversing the curses we know of, but so far it has had little or no effect. We're certain she used _gemynd derein_ on them, but our research has revealed that there's no counter for it. We were hoping you'd be able to help."

White Elk merely stared for a few moments, trying to take it in. Legilimens? What in heaven's name was that? He'd also never heard of a curse by the name given. In fact, most of the time curses didn't have a name, per se. No, these two were not his ordinary, run-of-the-mill people playing at being witches. Either they knew what they were doing on a serious level, or they were jerking his chain.

He cleared his throat. "Pardon me if this is rude, but what coven do you belong to? I'm not familiar with these kinds of things you're discussing."

"We don't belong to a coven," Aline said, wrinkling her brow. "Wait a minute! You don't believe us!"

"What's not to believe?" asked Lonny, wrinkling his face in a very masculine replica of his sister's. "Okay, the story about Bellatrix sounds kind of far fetched. But it's true."

"Show me your magic." White Elk sat back, waiting for them to admit they were frauds or to display something he'd seen in the past.

Still not quite understanding what this was all about, Lonny drew his wand from the inner pocket of his coat, pointed it at the fire and instantly the flames billowed to the ceiling, dancing about in the shape of a roaring lion. White Elk leapt backward against the wall, stricken. Aline smacked her brother in the arm, demanding he stop it before he burned down the nice man's hut. Grumbling, Lonny waved it again and the fire returned to normal.

Aline snapped her wand into her hand from its holster. She waved it about, and the bearskin rug across the fire stood up and folded itself into the form of a chair. Then she murmured, "_Expecto patronum_", and a ghostly tiger leapt from the end of her wand. It began prowling about the tiny building, to the horror of the man. "Our family has a thing about cats," she explained, smiling. "If you like, I can change the texture of the chair to something other than fur."

Stunned, White Elk shook his head. "No. Thank you. That will do." His wide black eyes followed the tiger, whose enormous paws were digging at the bearskin chair-rug. It jumped up and began circling over and over, then laid down. "Uh, can you get rid of that?"

"It won't hurt you, it's just a patronus," said Aline, vanishing the creature in an instant. "Now you believe us?"

"I never met witches like you before," confessed White Elk.

"I'm a wizard," Lonny corrected him.

White Elk didn't seem to hear him. "I know all the Medicine Men of the tribes around here. Swimming Turtle in Pocasset, Runs-With-Flame in Grafton, all of them. No one knows how to deal with your kind of magic. Trust me."

"But the book," Aline protested, wishing she'd been allowed to carry it out of the archives. "It specifically said when that curse was used, Medicine Men were able to lift the curse when the wizards could not."

"It did?" White Elk sat back, pondering. If his ancestors had been able to remove this curse, and he'd learned his skills from them, surely he'd be able to work the same results. He'd learned how to remove various types of curses, after all…it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that he could help these people. "Bring your friends to me and I'll do what I can."

Aline and Lonny once more exchanged worried glances. She shook her head. "I can't. They're in a mental hospital in England."

"Can't you accompany us there?" asked Lonny. "We can apparate you."

White Elk wasn't even sure he wanted to know what 'apparate' meant. His grizzled head wagged back and forth. "I would go, even at risk to myself, but this is my sacred land. Here is where I am able to draw on the spirits of my ancestors." He extended his arms out to the sides. "Here is where I am able to perform _my_ magic. I'm sorry."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 4****, 2001 (Sunday)**

Dolph rolled over on the couch and moaned softly. Light streaming in from the window taunted him with the lateness of the hour. That had certainly been one grand reception Rabby put on last night, he and Livonia. He sat up and wiped the drool spread across his face with the sleeve of his robe. Rab was married now. It seemed so strange, so unreal. Lately Rab had hardly been home because he'd been staying at Liv's house, but now he'd be gone all the time; he lived at her house now. It felt weird.

Dolph lay down again, and the moment his head hit the pillow a timid knock on the door made him spring upright. Damnable muggles, didn't they understand the meaning of a freaking 'No Solicitation' sign? Then again, he probably gave them too much credit; they probably couldn't read at all. "Go away!"

"Please," a voice chirped from the other side of the door. Another knock, slightly more forceful.

It wasn't someone he knew, of that he was certain—they wouldn't ask 'please'. He laughed to himself. Drawing his wand in the event of an ambush, he slinked to the door and peeked through the keyhole. Whoever it was, was pretty small. He opened the door a crack, glared at the intruder, and barked, "Bloody f—king hell, what are you doing here?"

He threw open the door and Tim peered up at him, looking both afraid and hopeful. "I ran away."

"No shit, I heard. All of Britain is looking for you." Ah, crap, and if they traced him here, guess who'd get the blame? "I asked what you're doing here."

Tim ducked his head, biting his lip and shuffling his shoe on the porch slats. His face was red and wind burned, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his fine jacket; at least he had one good thing, those clothes Malfoy had bought. "I heard you talking to your brother, before. You said you lived in Bradford. I…I walked."

He walked? All that way? Merlin's satin britches, that was a long way, and the kid sure looked like he'd been trudging a long time. Now that Dolph studied him, he was barely standing up, more like leaning on the rail.

Glancing about to make sure no one saw them, Dolph grabbed hold of the boy's coat and yanked him inside, to fling him against the inside wall and shut the door with a resounding bang. "I ask again: why did you come here?"

"You were nice to me, back at the beach house," Tim answered softly.

Dolph scrunched his brow in thoughtful confusion. "I was? Perhaps you're thinking of another bloke, my brother maybe."

"No, it was you."

A raucous snort escaped the man. "Kid, if that's your idea of _nice_, I feel sorry for you."

"Please don't make me go back." The words were so quiet Dolph had to strain to hear them. "I don't like them…him. He gives me funny looks."

The wizard resisted an impulse to smack the kid for being an ingrate. That was all it took to make him leave the home of a family willing to put up with him—the chap 'looked funny at him'? "What makes you think I won't send your arse right back there?"

The boy shrugged one shoulder as if in defeat. "Cuz you ain't like that, you ain't one of them."

"One of who?" demanded Dolph impatiently. He wanted to go back to his nap.

If the lad's face could fall any further, it had. He mumbled, "The ones that like to do stuff to kids."

Fully alert now, the hairs prickling along the nape of his neck, Dolph growled, "Did he do something to you?"

Tim shook his head and whispered, "I wasn't gonna give him the chance."

The man didn't miss the tear trickling down the lad's cheek. He took hold of the boy's arm, only to have Tim jerk away in fear. He'd seen that look more often than he cared to remember in his own brother's face, when they were children. He gestured at the sofa. "Come sit down. You tell me exactly what is going on, or I will turn you in to the Ministry."

Seated at opposite ends of the couch, the two stared at each other until at length Tim cleared his throat. His gaze bounced off the coffee table, the floor, the walls…everywhere except at the man he desperately needed to believe him. "My mum was a crack whore. She used to have her 'friends' over all the time, giving her drugs." He paused for more nervous throat clearing. "I was about six when one of 'em came to me in the night and…and he did awful, painful stuff." He had to go on, he knew that, yet he couldn't force his mouth to cooperate. He angrily brushed away the damned tears that came unbidden.

Dolph froze, and time seemed to not only stand still, it went into reverse. If Rabby had told him what was going on, he'd have put a stop to it immediately instead of letting his brother carry the guilt and shame all those years. Here before him he had the beginning of Rabby all over again…muggle version, but still. Seething with fury while outwardly composed, he said, "Do you know the name of that scumbag?"

Tim snorted a mocking laugh. "I doubt Mum even knew when she was shaggin' him. After that I hid in the cellar whenever anybody came; I figured it was safer. Mum started lockin' me in there, sometimes for days at a time. That last time I got so hungry I broke that little window out and squeezed through. I was searchin' for food in the rubbish bin in the alley when Greyback found me."

"Is that where you got those scars on your back, from Greyback?" When the boy shot him a quizzical look, he added, "I saw them when you took a bath."

"Oh. No, that was the window. The glass cut me up. Greyback said he smelled the blood before he smelled me." He paused, studying the wizard's face for any sign of what he was thinking. What was it about these wizards, why was it so hard to tell on most of them? "Please don't take me back. I'll be your slave, I'll do whatever you want—except sex—and I know you ain't like that, so—"

"Shut it!"

Tim's mouth snapped shut instantly. Dolph rubbed his hand over his close cropped beard as he debated within himself. What was he supposed to do? The Ministry were a bunch of f—kheads who couldn't care less what happened to the werewolf kids as long as they were out of the Ministry's hair. And Dolph frankly wanted no part of it, either. He'd nearly lost a foot because of werewolves, for crying out loud! And this kid was a _muggle_. Why was he even wasting time thinking about it?

A piecing gaze into the brown eyes staring pleadingly back at him gave him an answer that made his stomach lurch: because of Rabby. This kid reminded him strongly of Rabby, in his appearance as well as his story. He could not deny aid to his brother…what would Rab say about this? On a good day he'd punch Dolph for even considering letting the kid go back to a possibly perverse situation; on a bad day he'd hex him rotten. Yet, while he had absolutely no proof to support the boy's claim, could he in good conscience take that chance? If the brat turned out to be lying, Dolph could just as easily hand him over then, right?

"I'll let you stay for a while, but this is no f—king spa. You'll keep yourself clean, tidy up around here, and cook—and study. I won't have an idiot living under my roof. And I won't tolerate disobedience or sass, got it?"

Tim let out a relieved breath in a semi-sob. "Yes, thank you, sir."

"And you're not a slave," Dolph went on. "You're a…guest, I guess. You can bunk in my brother's old room, but if I find out you're lying to me…" He knew he didn't need to finish the threat for the kid to get the point. His tone and stern expression were enough to make the boy tremble, though the kid did sit up a bit straighter, lifting his chin.

"I'm not a liar," Tim stated.

"For your sake, I hope not." Dolph glanced at the clock on the wall. "Did you eat?"

"A couple days ago," answered Tim.

Heaving a martyr-like sigh, Dolph pointed toward the kitchen and said, "Take whatever you can find. I'm not much on cooking."

"Thank you, sir." Tim literally bounced off the sofa and ran into the kitchen, where he began opening cupboards and the refrigerator.

From his seat on the couch, Dolph watched him idly, wondering when the full moon was due. Pretty soon, he felt certain. Perhaps he'd best send a discreet note to Snape and let him know of the change in plans.


	68. Metamorphosis

15

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 68 (Metamorphosis)

**February 5, 2001**

_November 15, 1938_

_ I was reading today about ancient sorcerers in __1700s China being persecuted by the local population, who feared they were trying to steal their souls. It somehow involved clipping off the victim's hair queue. The supposed sorcerers were generally claimed to be traveling monks, whom the people were suspicious of, probably because they didn't know them. Fortunately, few if any were killed, unlike those witch hunts in Europe. What is it about muggles that makes them so hostile to those of us with magic? If they'd left the wizards alone, the wizards would most likely have left them alone, too. Instead, they breed in wizards a desire for freedom from their tyranny._

Tom/Therese observed the entry of his diary, which ended well before the bottom of the page; the corners of his mouth quirked upward. He bounced off the bed, retrieved a quill from the makeshift writing desk, and dipped it into the ink. In a script strikingly similar to that already in the diary, he began to write:

_February 5, 2001_

_ Until recently I'd have thought the concept of soul-stealing to be absurd, yet it has its merits when considering what has happened to me. I don't know how it has got to this point. I confess I am terribly confused as to the whole situation. I suspect the involvement of a timeturner, though I can prove nothing. Nevertheless, the years have somehow flown by and I am here, trapped in this body of a girl. A horrid, wretched girl who gives me no peace, who jeers at me—the greatest wizard of my age!—and who insists on disturbing me, gnawing at my brain like a rat. I wish I could swat her like one._

_ I am pent up in the infirmary, no doubt due to this idiot witch's fault. She caught a disease in the deep recesses of the dungeons—_

"Because I was trying to hatch _your_ stupid basilisk egg!" Therese snapped at him.

Tom ignored her. If he pretended she wasn't here, maybe she'd go away.

_—in the deep recesses of the dungeons because she's obviously an incompetent troll. Anyone with any sense would have retrieved the egg and secured it in a safe location, and wouldn't have been fool enough to get caught. _

"It wasn't my fault! One of the ghosts saw me," Therese shouted at him. "I'd like to see you evade someone who can glide through walls."

_This malady is very severe, could possibly cost me my magic, and the chit prattles on about her innocence. And the medicine I have to take every day—suffice it to say it is dreadfully bad. Not to mention being deprived of decent companionship for weeks at a time._

"You're an anti-social git anyway," Therese fired back. "You only hang around with those boys to boss them and feel like a big man, except you're not. Having powerful magic doesn't make you better, it only makes you stronger."

Tom vacillated, nearly giving in to the temptation to answer the girl directly, only that would encourage her to think he was listening to her. And he wasn't. He'd show her!

_My friends must miss me. Unlike some people, I do have friends who respect and admire me precisely because I have strong magic, which makes me better. They understand that. Anyone with half a brain would understand that. It's all well and good to be intelligent, as I am, yet without powerful magic it means little, for another could force his will upon me._

"Poor paranoid Tommy," Therese griped.

Scowling, Tom threw the quill onto the desk and slapped the cap onto the inkwell. "I think I'll take a nap now. Maybe that annoying ringing in my mind will go away." So saying, he flounced to the bed, hopped up onto it, and lay back, closing his eyes.

"You can't make me leave," the irritating girl said.

"Yes, I can!" Damn it! He'd meant to ignore her! He rolled over and put the pillow over his head.

"I'm still here."

"I can't hear you. La la la la la la…."

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**February 5, 2001**

Aline had been home all of one day when Severus proposed the idea of visiting the Room of Requirement for some 'stress relief' in the form of dueling. Had it been only with her husband, she might have declined the offer, but she'd been anxious to see this infamous Black woman for herself. And so here they were, entering the room for the second time in her life. Across the way, a petite witch with a mass of wavy black hair stood examining her claw-like fingernails, barely looking up to acknowledge their presence. She didn't seem to Aline all that imposing, aside from the kind of malevolence oozing from those dark, hooded eyes.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, I presume?" she asked.

Bella lazily lifted her face to the intruders. "Snape's American tart, I presume?"

"Meow," answered Aline, scarcely able to hold back a grin. This might be fun after all.

Bella took a few steps forward, placing one foot directly in front of the other like a model on the runway, making her bum swing back and forth in her short black skirt. Not even trying to cover her disdain, she crooned, "I see Snape had to leave the country to find a witch stupid enough to marry him." She cast a haughty glance at Severus, who had moved out of the line of fire in case the women began throwing hexes.

Smiling sweetly, Aline replied, "At least I'm not a trashy little skank panting after a hideous snake-man, debasing myself and embarrassing my husband with my lack of taste and morals."

"Nice one, honey," Severus said, smirking.

"Thank you, dear."

Bella didn't take it quite so well. From seemingly nowhere, her wand appeared in her hand and she flung a yellow curse at Aline. Having expected as much, Aline had snapped her wand into her hand from the start; she easily blocked the spell and returned one of her own.

Lestrange knocked it aside as if it were nothing and snorted in contempt. "You honestly think you can defeat me? I learned from the best."

"Nothing against Molly Weasley, but if she can beat you, I dare say I've got a good chance," Aline returned dryly, deliberately poking the other witch with the knowledge of how she had died, who had killed her. "No offense, Severus."

"None taken." Sure, he'd never beaten Bella, but Molly had, even if by luck. And gauging by what he had seen from both Aline and Molly, he'd put his galleons on Aline any day.

Glowering furiously, Bella cast a rapid series of curses at Aline, who dove to the side while deflecting the most immediate of them. From her crouch on the floor, she returned fire and rolled to a new position like a soldier on a battleground. One of the curses ricocheted into the wall, breaking off a chunk of rock that crashed to the floor. Bellatrix leapt and ducked, blocking and returning fire so quickly Aline wasn't quite sure how she did it. Severus had shown her the circling-wrist technique he'd learned from watching Bella in one of the diary visions, yet she'd not had much opportunity to practice it, certainly not years' worth of experience.

"Give up now and I may let you live," Bella taunted.

"Oooh, I'm scared," Aline retorted, sending a stream of her own hexes Bella's way.

The other witch twisted to narrowly avoid two in a row, and swung about to cast the third back at Aline with a _protego_. Letting out a squeak, Aline flattened herself on the stone floor to avoid being hit by her own curse; it had been a nasty one. Before she could get up, another spell came so close it singed her robes, and Aline bounded up with a grimace.

"These are some of my favorite robes, bitch," she growled. A sudden slashing movement sent a purple flame at Lestrange, which she flipped aside with her wand. It hit the ceiling, and pieces of the stone rained down upon them.

"_Infligo damnum_," Bella sneered, her teeth bared. "Learned from Dolohov, did you? I thought the likes of you were too good for our curses."

"I may be, but you aren't," said Aline tightly. "That's why I sent it your way." She hoped Severus didn't mention it later, that she'd taken into her repertoire the heinous curse Bayly had learned from his father.

"Oh, and those robes—where did you get such lack of style?" goaded Bella.

Aline knew well enough not to fall for it, yet it rankled all the same. American robes were different from the British, and she happened to like her own better. "You're a fine one to comment on style. Where did you dig up that number you're wearing? A muggle trash can?"

"Funny you should say that," Bella cooed, taking another step toward her adversary. Now they were mere paces apart. "I hear you mated with Snape. Repulsive enough, I must say, but to learn you produced two replicas of that sniveling traitor…words fail me. Too bad you didn't have enough sense to dump the squalling brats in the rubbish where they belong."

That did it. The line-that-must-not-be-crossed in Aline's mind snapped. Without hesitation she flung herself at Bella across the open space. The action being completely unanticipated, Bella backed up and lifted her wand, but not in time. Aline tackled her, dragging her to the floor and landing heavily on top of her. Bella's wand skittered across the floor when she fell, the wind knocked from her.

Aline sat up on Bella's chest, pounding her face with balled fists. Bella bucked her off and tried to roll away—and she did get in a good kick to Aline's midriff, right before the other grabbed her ankle and twisted with all her might. Given that her preternatural strength associated with her clairvoyance allowed her to turn Bella's strength against her, it comprised considerable force. The ankle cracked loudly in the strangely silent room, the only sounds being grunts and shrieks; a resounding scream pierced the air as the bone fractured.

"Stop! Stop!" screeched Bella.

"Why should I? I'm sure you didn't stop when people begged you to."

Nonetheless, Aline threw the foot away from her and sat back on the heels of her feet, panting. It didn't look like the bitch would be getting up. Slowly she got to her feet, then as a rush of animosity flooded her she delivered a savage kick to Bella's ribs, then another, and another, punctuating her speech. "You—can talk—about me. But you'd damned well—better not—talk about—my boys!"

At last Severus came over, his face set in pure astonishment. "Honey, I think you can quit." If he weren't afraid she'd light into him, he'd have taken her arm.

Aline looked up at him as if just noticing he was there. "The whore was asking for it."

"Yes, she was," he agreed. He studied her as she stood there over her vanquished enemy, and his heart swelled. She'd won…maybe not the _duel_, per se, but the fight. Emotions mingled inside him, among them dismay not only that his wife had won, but at how vicious she had been. He'd not felt so turned on since his wedding day. "My God, Aline, I've never loved you as much as I do right now. That was spectacular."

"We never finished the duel," she mumbled. "Are you disappointed?"

"No. You've given me a memory that I will replay in my mind for years to come, my darling." He took her in his arms to lead her to the door. He desperately needed to show her how much he loved her; his quarters weren't that far away…

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

They'd spent a good part of the afternoon in his quarters. Aline rolled off of his bare chest and propped herself onto an elbow, gazing at him in the dim light.

"Severus, I've been thinking ever since I went to see that Indian, White Elk. An idea struck me, and I need to ask you a teeny, tiny favor."

"Whatever you want, my love," he murmured, playing with a lock of her long chestnut hair.

"I'm glad you said that, because it may be…how do I put this…slightly illegal."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 7, 2001**

Rab put the final stitches into the kneazel he'd just operated on, and then clipped the thread with a pair of sharp scissors. Laying the bloodied instruments in a tin pan beside the operating table, he sat back, took off his protective gloves, and ran a hand through his hair. He'd honestly not expected the animal to pull through; evidently it had a stronger will to live than he'd given it credit for.

"You can put her back in her cage now. Make sure she's got a blanket under her, and water for when she wakes up."

Dolph nodded as he carefully eased his hands under the creature, lifting her limp form and carrying it out the door into the common area where all the cages were kept. He slid her body onto the waiting soft blanket, gently sponged off the surgical area again, threw the bloody cloth into the rubbish bin, and tucked the blanket round her for added warmth. He bent in close to whisper something only he could hear.

"Chatting up cats now?" asked a mocking voice from the door to the reception area. "Must be pretty hard up."

"Sod off, wanker," Dolph replied, grinning as he turned to the other man.

Marshal grinned back at him. "So what's this you wanted to talk about?"

"Go on in there, I'll be a second," said Goodman, indicating the way he'd come from. He set a bowl of fresh water inside the cage, locked it, and followed Marshal in.

Already Marshal had made himself at home, juggling a trio of medical instruments, including a scalpel, forceps, and a hypodermic needle. Up and around they went, twirling, falling, catching and tossing, with Marshal wearing a slightly bored expression.

Rab glowered at him and demanded, "Put those down. You'll cut your hand off or poke out an eye, and I'm not operating on you."

"Not likely. I've played with lots more dangerous things," retorted Marshal, flipping the scalpel round in his hand to hold the blade as he presented it to the doctor. He let the other two instruments drop to the table and bounce onto the floor with a clatter. The hypodermic shattered and sprayed its glass about the floor.

"What are you doing here anyway?" asked Rab.

"He invited me," said Marshal, pointing at the elder Goodman brother.

Dolph shrugged one shoulder. Using his wand he picked up the fallen and broken tools, and set to cleaning the table manually, washing it down with a soapy sponge while Rabby scrubbed his hands in the sink. Every so often he stole glances at the other two wizards. "You know that werewolf kid that ran away and no one can find him?" he asked innocently.

"Yeah, what about him?" asked his brother.

"He's at our house. Tomorrow is the full moon, and I may need your help."

"Not funny, Dolph," replied Rabby in a tired voice.

"Not meant to be," answered Dolph solemnly.

Gobsmacked, Rab spun from the sink, his hands dripping on the floor. At first try he was unable to speak, then he barked, "Merlin's ghost! Did you steal him?"

In indignation Dolph threw the sponge down, eyes flaming. "See, this is what I get for doing a good deed! My own brother accuses me of atrocities!"

"Well, you did say—" Marshal began, to be cut off by a death glare from both brothers at once. He inched against the wall, pinching his lips shut.

"I _said_ he was at our house," Dolph repeated, glowering at no one in particular. "He showed up a few days ago, said he'd heard us talking and knew I lived in Bradford."

"May I ask _why_ he came here?" Rab growled.

"'Cause he thinks I'm nice," Dolph replied, picking up the sponge to resume his work.

"Nice?" echoed Rab, his brow furrowing. "As in handsome? Because you are that."

"Or 'nice' as in…I got nothing," Marshal said.

"_Nice_ as in the traditional f—king definition of _nice_!" bellowed Dolph. What was so bloody hard to comprehend?

"I'm kind of lost," admitted Rab, wiping his hands and coming to sit on the stool beside his brother. "He searched you out because you're _nice_." The emphasis made Dolph wince. "What about the family he was placed with?"

"The man's a possible pervert. The kid's been abused in the past, and was afraid of him," Dolph responded, studying Rab's face. It didn't take much to read him, for his brown eyes widened, he instinctively drew back, and his body stiffened.

"He's still a muggle brat," Marshal interjected.

Rab whirled on him so suddenly he flinched. "Dolph did the right thing. You can't leave him with a molester."

"You don't even know if he is," Marshal countered. "The kid could be lying."

Dolph took a deep breath. He really didn't want to get into a fruitless argument over something they couldn't prove or disprove, and when it came right down to it, this wasn't the moment for playing games. The boy would be changing into a werewolf tomorrow, like it or not. He needed to be ready. "Time will tell there. In the meantime, I'm on call at the firestation. If I get called in on an emergency, Tim will be home alone in werewolf form. I was hoping one of you could sit with us tomorrow, just in case."

"And will he be provided with Wolfsbane, or are we supposed to just hope he doesn't kill us?" asked Marshal sarcastically.

"I could remedy your dilemma right now," Dolph said, half threatening, his wand drawn.

"That's enough!" Rab shouted, waving his hand at his brother to put away the wand and at Marshal on general purposes. "He's got a point, Dolph. The other kids are getting Wolfsbane. Did you—"

"I talked to Snape, he's on board," Dolph assured him. No one bothered to ask whether Snape could be trusted with such information, for his tight-lipped attitude was all too well known. Not only was he the ideal wizard to keep a secret, he knew how to make Wolfsbane, and he had no love of the Ministry…frankly, one would be hard pressed to find a better partner in crime.

"What are you gonna do with him? With Tim?" asked Rab finally. He honestly couldn't see his brother committing to raising a muggle boy for the next several years.

Dolph shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't know. For now, I'm taking it one day at a time."

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**February 8, 2001**

"Marcus, come out from under that settee this instant!" Lucius, kneeling with his head bent down almost onto the rug, and his hair trailing over the floor, made a swipe for the boy.

The child scooted further away, wrinkling his nose. "I don't like it. It's yucky."

Realizing he didn't seem nearly as imposing when crouched on the floor, Lucius lifted himself to his feet and pulled himself erect. In his most fatherly manner—that being, mimicking Abraxas in his most authoritative tone—he drawled, "I don't care. You will either drink the Wolfsbane now, or I will use my magic to drag you out from there and give you a taste of what Draco used to refer to as the 'ouchy stick'." He brandished his cane, but since he was fairly certain the boy couldn't see it from there, he cracked it on the rug a few times. It thumped ominously.

Marcus whimpered, but he didn't budge. "You're mean! I'm telling Miss Narcissa!"

Through half-lidded eyes, Lucius replied drolly, "Go right ahead. She's far stricter than I am."

A few moments passed in dead silence. Suddenly Marcus' upper torso burst out from under the loveseat, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. "I don't want Miss Narcissa to be cross with me. And I don't wanna get whipped."

Taking the opportunity, Lucius grasped his arms and dragged him up onto his feet, then put a reassuring arm about his shoulders. The tiny boy trembled beneath him, and it made his heart sink. "Don't worry, little man. No one's going to hit you or hurt you. You've got my wife twisted round your finger. If anything, she'll be angry with _me_ if you don't drink it. Do you want me to get in trouble?"

Marcus shook his head vehemently. The Malfoys were good to him, and cared about him. He didn't want anyone to be upset. He held out a hand, which Lucius took and led him to the dining room where the steaming goblet set on the table, waiting. He handed it to the lad, who sniffed it, pulled a hideous face, then gulped down several swallows before gagging as tears ran from his eyes.

"Good boy," Lucius murmured, patting his head. In the child's place, he doubted he'd be any too anxious to drink the swill, either, but it must be done. Over time, he'd get used to it.

"Do I have to go in the cellar now?" asked the werewolf, a pitiful expression on his face.

"Not just yet. Miss Narcissa will be back shortly, she'll want to speak to you." He snapped open his pocket watch to look at the time. Where was she? The boy was getting antsy and irritable, they couldn't wait much longer. Who knew when the change might happen?

"Ah, there you are!" Narcissa swooped into the dining room smiling brilliantly, like a cat that had recently eaten a very fat canary. She gave Lucius a peck on the mouth and turned to Marcus. She bent over and kissed his forehead, and he hugged her legs. "Did you have any problem getting him to drink it?"

"What do I look like?" responded Lucius cryptically, smiling back at her and offering her the nearly empty goblet as proof.

"Marcus, I've brought you something…or should I say some_one_." She motioned at the doorway, where Sirius was leaning on the frame and grinning. Lucius rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. It wouldn't do to poison the child's mind against the mutt at this point in time.

"Remember me, kid?" Sirius asked.

Marcus nodded. "You were at the beach house. Mr. Black."

"That's right. Charlotte and Henry have each other; I'm going to be staying with you tonight so you don't have to be alone." He swaggered into the room. "Hello, Lucius."

"Sirius," Lucius replied curtly. He should be offering thanks for coming, shouldn't he? That was the genteel thing to do. But he hated the jerk so blasted much! He was spared making any further comment when Marcus spoke.

"But I might hurt you. Mr. Malfoy said it isn't safe," the boy protested.

_I'm willing to take the chance with Black_, Lucius thought, smiling to himself. "Feel free to do whatever comes naturally, Marcus. He can take it." Shit, had he said that out loud?

Sirius sent him a withering glare. Alright, apparently he had said it aloud. Addressing Marcus, Black said, "For most people it's not safe, only I'm different. I'm an animagus." He could tell from the boy's blank expression he had no concept of the word. "I can change into an animal, too."

"You're a werewolf?" the child exclaimed.

"No," Sirius grinned. "Watch." An instant later, a shaggy black dog stood at the lad's feet.

"You're a dog!" Marcus' face split in a wide smile as he petted the canine, which licked his fingers.

Sirius morphed back. "Tonight I'll be Padfoot in the cellar with you—or Snuffles, some people call me that."

Through sheer strength of will, Lucius held back another caustic remark concerning names he and others had for Black. He must play nice if he wanted Marcus to have a companion.

"Can I call you…um…Blackie?" asked Marcus.

"Sure, why not?" He glanced out the window at the approaching dusk. "We'd better get going. Are you sure the door is secure?"

"Yes, Sirius," Narcissa said with a sigh. Had she not explained all this before bringing him over? There was one way out of the cellar—the door—and it was enchanted with elf magic to strengthen it and prevent anyone or anything breaking through. She crushed Marcus to her chest in another quick hug. "Be a good boy, and we'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, ma'am." He turned to Lucius, looking up at him with his wide blue eyes, obviously expecting a hug. Lucius deliberately avoided Sirius' gaze while embracing the child and whispering in his ear.

Sirius led the way into the cellar, where Marcus made him pause while he disrobed to leave his clothing on the other side. "I don't wanna get it ruined," he said.

The door shut and a lock slid into place. Sirius walked across the floor to the pile of blankets left by Sisidy. He sat down and beckoned the boy to join him. "I'll wait till you change, then I will, too. Before that, we can chat for a bit. Did you know that when I was in school, one of my best friends was a werewolf?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"What're you lookin' at?" asked Marshal to the boy secured behind the bars left when Severus had been imprisoned at the old, dilapidated castle.

Tim averted his gaze. "Nothing. Just lookin'." He wiped the beaded sweat from his brow. It wasn't hot in here; in fact, judging from the puffs of white air coming from everyone's mouths, it was quite cold. He paced a bit, threw himself onto the stone throne Voldemort had made for himself, and began biting his nails. "It's coming on, Mr. Goodman."

He ripped off his clothes in a frenzy, partly from the heat and partly from habit. They hadn't had many things to wear all those years, and couldn't afford to spoil what they had. He tossed them out through the bars.

"What're you doing?" asked Rabby.

"I don't wanna ruin 'em. They're so nice," Tim answered.

Rab and Marshal automatically turned to Dolph at the mention of the word 'nice', both smirking so fiercely he wished he could smack them silly. Instead he scowled at them as he picked up the clothes and set them on the tiny table where he'd sat many times guarding Snape. "Can't you make yourselves useful? Marshal, I thought you were gonna cook for us?"

"I will, in due time," he answered lazily. "I just never saw a transformation before. Now that I think of it, you got a werewolf, Malfoy has one—hell, even Potter's got two! If everyone else has got one, I'm thinking I want one, too."

"You're insane," Rabby growled.

Tim let out an unearthly shriek as he seemed to fall off the throne. Writhing on the ground, he began to sprout copious amounts of hair on his arms, legs, and torso. His legs buckled and bent, accompanied by more screams. As his face elongated into a snout, Marshal watched in fascination. Dolph and Rab watched in mingled disgust and horror; instinctively they drew back away from the bars. Tim's brow dipped, his face became covered in fur, and his hands twisted into long-fingered paws with razor sharp claws. By the time the metamorphosis was complete, the men were panting almost as hard as the boy.

"Okay, guess I'll go cook us something now," Marshal said cheerily. "Anyone in the mood for spaghetti?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Charlotte paced the attic above Grimmauld Place on long, hairy limbs. Henry had settled in on the blankets Harry had provided, but she couldn't. She didn't feel right, and not because she was in werewolf form. _That_ she was used to. She felt even more agitated than usual…maybe it was the potion they'd been forced to drink, that nasty concoction. But Henry seemed alright—downright docile, in fact. It wasn't natural. Werewolves were not docile!

She strode over to her brother and grunted at him. He merely looked up at her, then lay his head back down. She growled deep in her throat, and Henry mewled back. In a fit of rage she howled, picked him up and shook him, then tossed him aside when he refused to even fight back. Not content with that, she pounced on him and began to claw at his back, eliciting screams.

From below, Harry listened to the shrieks. He'd thought when the change was complete the pain would stop. Hadn't Lupin said the potion made them calm? They didn't sound calm. At last, when he could bear the thumping and howling no longer, he ran up the stair to the door separating him from the werewolves. Sturdy metal handles threaded by a heavy beam kept the door from opening. He was in the process of removing the beam when Ginny bolted up the stairs and yanked him away.

"What are you doing? You'll get killed!" she shouted.

"Something's wrong, Ginny. They shouldn't be still screaming and howling." He tried to push past her, but she stood her ground.

"How do you know? Have you ever heard two werewolves together before? No, you haven't." She spread her arms and backed up to the door, bracing her legs. "You're not going in there."

"We have to do something!"

"Like what? What can we possibly do for werewolves, Harry?" she retorted. She slid to the floor in a squat. "If I have to stay here all night, I won't let you in. I'm sure everything is fine."

Harry vacillated for a minute. If he went in, what could he do? Get ripped to pieces? Maybe Ginny was right, maybe this was normal behaviour. "Alright, but first thing in the morning, I'm going in."

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**February 9, 2001**

At the first light of day, Harry flung open the door to the attic, and the bile leapt into his throat. Blood spattered the walls and floor. Henry, covered in the red fluid, lay in the corner, scarcely breathing; Charlotte, her arms and mouth also blood-smeared, lay asleep in the middle of the floor.

"Ginny! Kreacher!"

Kreacher popped in immediately, and his bug-eyes grew two sizes. "Master Harry Potter, what happened?"

"I don't know. We—"

"Oh, my God!" Ginny shrieked, staring at the carnage. "Harry, what…?"

"We have to get them to the hospital. Kreacher, can you take Charlotte? I'll take Henry." He pierced his girlfriend with a hateful glower. "I told you something was wrong!" He picked up Henry, ran downstairs to the fireplace, and _floo_'d away.


	69. Three Hospitals and a Wedding

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 69 (Three Hospitals and a Wedding)

**February 9, 2001**

(A/N: Please be sure you read the last chapter. My stats table shows that the read count is lower than usual, as is the review total, and with the recent blackberry troubles...)

"Therese?" The voice, barely more than a whisper in the silent, empty infirmary, echoed gently along the walls. Footsteps followed, haltingly advancing. "Therese?"

Tom/Therese, wearing a confused pucker on the brow, got off the bed and came to the window of the door separating him/her from the rest of the hospital. "Jonathan. What are you doing here?"

"Madam Pomfrey had to leave, one of the Ravenclaws got splinched when he was trying to apparate from Hogsmeade." He inched closer.

"Go away!" Tom demanded, shaking a fist behind the door. Realizing the boy couldn't see it, he scowled mightily.

Jonathan Avery froze where he was, a hurt expression on his face. "I thought you'd be glad for some company," he said.

"I don't want you making me sick! Are you trying to kill me or rob me of my magic?" Tom barked.

"I'm not sick," Jonathan answered. "How can I make you sick?"

"Ask Madam Pomfrey," retorted Tom huffily.

The Slytherin lad contemplated for a moment, then turned to go, crestfallen. He'd hoped Therese would be cheered to see him. After all, she hadn't had any visitors in all the weeks she'd been cooped up here. And why did her voice sound funny, like a boy? Maybe the illness caused it. Maybe it made her crabby, too.

"Jonathan!" her voice—not that boyish one—called behind him. He turned to look at her face in the little round window. She looked…sad. "Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for being a piss ant."

Jonathan smiled, then chuckled. He was right, she just wasn't feeling good, probably was scared. "It's okay. When you get out of here, we can visit a lot. Feel better." He waved and strode to the swinging exit doors. He heard a muffled sound from the gated-off room as he left. He hoped it wasn't Therese crying.

In her sequestered room, Therese had stomped to the bed and thrown herself down upon it, her face in the pillow. "I hate you so much, Tom Riddle! Why can't you leave me alone?"

"Give up and let me control the body, and I will," he cooed back at her.

"No! It's mine." Smiling evilly, she twisted her neck as if he were beside her. "I'll smother myself, then you'll be dead as well." So saying, she shoved her face into the pillow.

She struggled for a moment, then her head lifted, gasping for air. "You silly girl! You think I'll let you execute us?" He snorted a laugh. "As if! Besides, I happen to know your thoughts, and I know you wouldn't kill yourself."

Glowering at herself, for there were no other persons in the room, Therese sat up and threw the pillow onto the floor. She should have known he wouldn't fall for it, he was too clever. How could she get him out of her head? Well, if she couldn't be rid of him, she could still annoy him. She bounced off the bed and flounced to the writing desk set up for her. Uncapping the ink, she dipped her quill in, opened Tom's diary, and began to write.

_Dear Tom's stupid diary,_

_Jonathan came by today and moron-face chased him off. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him!_

"Stop ruining my diary!" Tom screeched. He flung the quill across the room. It hit the opposite wall, and fell to the floor leaving a trail of black ink spots on the stone. "What is wrong with you?"

"You're wrong with me!" she screamed back. Suddenly she ripped a page from the diary and in a frenzy tore it to small pieces.

"Stop it, you insane chit!" he bellowed.

"You're one to talk!" she shrieked back.

Tom snatched her wand from the desk, aimed it at the papers, and muttered, "_Reparo._" The pieces mended themselves into a whole sheet, and floated toward the book with the intent to reattach itself.

Not having been party to Tom's thoughts all these months for nothing, Therese called out, "_Incendio!_" and the page burned to a crisp in a flash of flame.

White hot with fury, Tom ground out through clenched teeth, "Do that again, and I'll break the wand. You're lucky I don't turn it on you!"

"You'd be turning it on yourself, fool," she retorted, smirking. She'd won this round! She skipped to the window overlooking the garden outside. Maybe she ought to ask Madam Pomfrey for some 'outside time'. Tom hated that…but for now, she really, really felt strongly compelled to read the blasted diary.

From the Headmaster's office, Severus opened the map lent to him by Potter. He was almost afraid to see that nothing had changed—again—when his eyes glinted with satisfaction. The person rambling about the infirmary was none other than Therom Hawdle—no longer Tomese Ridbecker! Therese was gaining the upper hand! Perhaps it was time to give her a pep talk, encourage her to keep fighting, as if she needed that directive. She seemed to be doing well on her own. And if it followed the same pattern as it had for him, she was still reading the diary voraciously. Soon, hopefully very soon, she'd be well again.

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**February 9, 2001**

Harry hedged into the room at St. Mungo's, careful not to make any noise lest he wake the injured boy. He crept to the bed to stare down at Henry, his face so angelic in slumber; though he had been mauled quite badly on his back and stomach, surprisingly his face had been mostly spared. It wasn't right. This was Snape's fault, his potion hadn't worked—he caught himself and stopped. The time for blaming Snape had ended more than two years ago when he'd proven himself a warrior to the cause of what was right. And wasn't it really Harry's fault for not checking on the children when he heard them screaming?

He stroked the lad's brow gently. "I'm sorry, Henry," he whispered.

From the chair by the bedside, Sirius looked up at his godson. "He's sleeping peacefully. The healers say he'll be fine, probably won't even have too many scars."

"That's good," Harry mumbled, sinking into the chair on the other side. "It's my fault, Sirius. I heard it, I wanted to go in…"

"How do you think I feel?" asked Sirius point blank. "If I'd stayed at Grimmauld Place with him and Charlotte, then I'd have known something was wrong. You couldn't have done anything, but I could…and I wasn't there."

"Marcus needed you," said Harry, shaking his head. The poor child, only seven and already a werewolf for three years. From his own wretched childhood he understood the pain of being utterly abandoned; to visit it upon another made his heart ache. "How would you feel knowing you'd left that little kid all alone for the first time during his change?"

Sirius didn't respond, though the set of his jaw made it plain he didn't like the options he'd been given. "You know, Snape is really the one to blame. He made a point of saying he'd brewed that potion himself—"

"Sirius, don't," said Harry softly. "He's very good at what he does. You know for yourself he made Lupin's potion; if he was going to bungle it, he'd have done so then. But he always did it right…." He trailed off at the sight of Severus standing in the doorway, listening to the conversation with a scowl. "Professor."

"Hello, Mr. Potter." Snape glowered right through Sirius, refusing to acknowledge him. He strode purposefully to the bed to scrutinize the boy. "Have they used blood replenisher?"

"Yes," said Harry, nodding. "The scars will be minimal. He'll be okay."

"What happened, Snape?" asked Sirius, rising to his feet. "Charlotte said she felt more savage than usual, and Henry just let her tear him to shreds."

Severus blinked back shock. All he'd heard was that the children had a werewolf fight during the night; he'd never known the Wolfsbane not to work! If Henry reacted in a docile manner, that was what was _supposed_ to happen. But for Charlotte to become enraged and vicious—that was _not_ supposed to happen.

"And she's still wonky and sick," Sirius went on, motioning vaguely to the room next door where she was being kept for observation. "Whatever you gave her did it."

"I gave her the exact same potion as I gave Henry," Severus clipped, black eyes projecting enmity so palpable Harry winced. Although each batch had to be made individually, all three (including the one he'd made for Tim) had come out looking, smelling, and steaming exactly the same. It simply was not conceivable he'd forgotten an ingredient, or done it improperly, else the result would not have been identical.

"Maybe it doesn't work on girls?" Harry suggested tentatively.

"Brooke was fine," Snape answered in a curt tone.

The tiniest hint of doubt crept in, and he mentally swatted it away. Bayly had made the Wolfsbane for Brooke, Roger, and Marcus. None of them had experienced any problem. Had Severus made a mistake somehow? No, it wasn't possible! The end result cannot be the same unless the process is the same. It wasn't a female issue, either, apparently. Was Charlotte allergic to some component of the potion? If so, changing it to accommodate her would be fruitless, as the formula would be ineffectual.

"So why did she act that way?" Sirius reiterated, not letting up.

"How the hell would I know!" Severus bellowed at him. "Perhaps she was high on some muggle drug you acquired for her."

"Stop it!" Harry jumped to his feet, face red, eyes like green pulsing lamps. "Nobody is to blame. It happened. What are we going to do about it?"

Sirius pinched his lips together and flopped back into his chair. Severus crossed his arms and stepped away from the bed. "If Charlotte is allergic to Wolfsbane, it certainly is neither in her best interests nor those of her brother to continue feeding it to her," Severus said finally. "However, she will continue to morph into a werewolf every month, so it would behoove you to find her a secure, padded location in which to do so."

"Where's Charlotte?" asked a tiny voice from the boy on the bed. His frightened eyes scanned the people here, recognizing Harry and Sirius.

Harry bent down a bit to stroke the lad's hair again. "She's in the room next door. Do you want to see her?"

Pause. That couldn't be good. Henry's lips trembled as he said, "She hurt me."

"She didn't mean to," Sirius assured him, tossing a hateful glance at Severus. To his credit, he didn't vocalize his mistrust of the man in front of the child. "The potion she drank made her sick, made her act badly to you. She didn't mean it."

"Is she alright?" asked Henry.

"Yes. She feels terrible about harming you."

"I'll go get her if you like," Harry offered. At Henry's nod, he left the room; the other three exchanged awkward glances, until Henry spoke.

"Who are you?"

"I am Severus Snape, Headmaster at Hogwarts School," he replied stiffly. Already he sensed what the boy was going to say, yet he felt compelled to explain. "I am the one who made the potion you drank."

"And that made my sister sick?" he asked. He hadn't meant it maliciously, though Severus took it that way nonetheless.

"Yes." Another long, heinously awkward pause. Why couldn't he let it go? It was a child, a muggle child, he had no idea what was in play here. Yet he couldn't let it go, not with Black sitting there looking smug and malevolent, just waiting to poison the boy's mind against Snape. "The potion was made correctly; your sister appears to have had a severe reaction to it. I have never seen it happen before."

"Geez, Snape, make excuses why don't you?" Sirius mumbled.

Harry came in then, supporting with one arm about her waist Charlotte, who walked slowly, her eyes glued to her brother. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and began to stream down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Henry! I don't know what came over me, I—" She dissolved in sobs.

"I'm okay," he said, reaching his arms out to her. "I know you didn't mean it."

Charlotte shook off Harry's arm and rushed to her brother, embracing him tightly and weeping into his hair. He hugged her fiercely in return as the men looked on, unspeaking.

"I'll never hurt you again, I promise," Charlotte said. And she meant it.

She sat on the bed, the better to continue clutching her brother to her, rocking him. She wouldn't take that horrible potion again, no matter what any of those wizards said. Before that, she'd never injured any of her pack mates; she'd seen some of the boys fighting with each other in werewolf form from time to time, but not one of the girls. If she had to run away and live in the woods to keep Henry safe, she'd do it.

"Charlotte?" She lifted her head to the unfamiliar, silky voice…it was the bloke in billowy black robes. "I'd like to test you, if I may—to see if I can find out why the Wolfsbane didn't work."

"No." Why did all the men looked shocked? Wouldn't they have said the same? "I won't drink it again, so it doesn't matter. Lock me away, send me away, I don't care."

"We're not going to do that, Charlotte," Harry said gently.

"Except on the fu—" Sirius began, only to censor himself.

"On the full moon," she finished for him. "You have to. I'm not safe to be around."

"We'll figure something out," Harry said. He and Sirius had opted to take Henry and Charlotte because they knew no one else was likely to want to deal with two werewolves at once. Separating the siblings wasn't going to be considered. "We've got a month to figure something out."

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**February 10, 2001 **

_Kingsley __Shacklebolt,__ accompanied __by__ three __aurors,__ stood__ on__ the __front__ lawn__ of__ Malfoy __Manor __wearing__ a__ satisfied__ smile __that __Lucius __wished __he __could __hex __off__ his __obnoxious __face.__ "__I__'__ve __come __for __the__ boy,__" __he __repeated,__ gesturing__ at__ the__ small__ child__ cringing__ between Lucius__' __legs._

_ "My attorneys—" Lucius began._

_ "Can't do diddly shit," Shacklebolt finished for him, his smiling widening until it became blinding in the sunlight. "We've found a family for Marcus, one that doesn't include an ex-Death Eater. Step away from him."_

_ Shacklebolt raised his wand; the three aurors with him raised theirs as well. Lucius' heart, thumping rapidly in his chest, seemed to stop for a brief second, and his breathing felt labored. The words ground from his throat, barely audible. "No! He likes it here. We can give him a better life than that other family. We love him."_

_ "Boo-hoo," one of the aurors taunted, grinning like a fool. "He'll forget you soon enough."_

_ Kingsley __made__ a __motion __to __his __men;__ they __moved __forward__ as __Lucius__ moved__ back __toward__ the__ house,__ Marcus __clinging__ to __his __leg. __It__ was __so__ hard__ to__ walk, __he __felt __riveted__ to__ the __spot.__ Why __couldn__'__t__ he__ find__ his__ wand?__ In__ an __instant__ two__ of__ the __aurors__ grabbed__ Lucius __by__ the __arms, __and__ the__ third__ snatched__ hold__ of__ the__ boy__ as __he__ attempted__ to __flee.__ With __the __lad__ screaming__ piteously,__ the__ auror__ dragged__ him__ off__ and__ disapparated.__ The __men__ holding__ Lucius __let__ him __go,__ and__ he__ fell__ to__ his__ knees__ on__ the __ground.__ Then __they__ were __gone__ and__ he __was__ alone_…

"Lucius? Honey, wake up," Narcissa insisted, shaking him.

With a snap Lucius sat up, wild eyed, staring unseeing around him. Gradually comprehension struck, and he sank back onto the bed, exhaling in a long, slow breath. "I had it again, that nightmare. It means something, Narcissa, I can feel it."

She lay down and snuggled up close to him, putting an arm over his chest. He patted it distractedly. What could she say to alleviate his fear? Nothing. If the Ministry decided to take Marcus, there was not a damned thing she or Lucius or any of his legal representatives could do about it. They'd said as much this morning at the meeting Lucius called. All their study into the subject had proven futile, there simply was no precedent for placing a non-family member with a Death Eater family, regardless of all other circumstances…somehow it always came down to that, as if being a Death Eater quantified or embodied who Lucius was.

"There has got to be a way around this," Narcissa said.

Lucius grunted softly. "If you mean hiding Marcus again, it won't work. They'll tear the house apart if they have to. Shacklebolt has already threatened to arrest me, and he'll do it." He didn't finish the rest of his thought, of how he shuddered to imagine what kinds of tortures they'd use on him to get him to break. He was a former follower of the dark lord…apparently that made it alright to use brutal and savage methods. Having spent nearly a year in Azkaban, he was frankly terrified of ending up there again.

Narcissa gave him a fierce hug. Was he giving up? Not that she could blame him, considering what they'd do to him under interrogation. She understood his fear all too well, despite his affection for Marcus. But wasn't her husband the master manipulator? And wasn't she his beloved, who'd learned from the best? If he couldn't think of a solution, maybe she could. "Come on, darling, we have things to discuss."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 11, 2001 **

_My Dear Son,_

_Please __forgive__ the__ omission__ of__ niceties,__ as __time __is __of __the __essence.__ I__ have __a__ vastly__ important__ task __for__ you.__ I__ wish __I __could__ say__ it__ will__ be __easy,__ but __that__ rarely__ seems__ to __be __the__ case__ for__ us_.

Draco skipped to the bottom of the letter, nervously fiddling with the corner of it. He'd read it so many times he had it memorized, and he just wished the man would open his door already. If he failed in this mission, he'd blame himself forever, every time he faced his parents.

_I cannot stress enough how imperative it is that the Ministry never discover our hand in this. You must make that point crystal clear, or it will all be for naught. Thank you, son. We love you._

_Your Mother_

Draco carefully folded the parchment and slid it into his breast pocket, right as the heavy door to Dimitar Tanassov's office opened. In his deep, brusque voice tinged with a slight accent, the Bulgarian said, "Mr. Malfoy, you are precisely on time. Please come in."

The young man got to his feet, extended his hand to the man, and said, "Thank you for meeting with me. My mother and father are beside themselves with worry." He looked past the big man to see Luna practically floating out into the corridor.

"Hello, Draco," she said as she drifted round her beau, one arm encircling his waist. "I haven't seen much of you since your dragon accident. How is your testicle?"

Draco blushed to the roots of his hair. "Luna! I thought we agreed not to discuss my…private regions." Knowing that wouldn't end it, he added hastily, "And it's fine."

To his relief, Tanassov came to his rescue. "Luna, my love, will you be kind enough to call the talassams for me? I would like to sit by the fire and drink some spiced wine as we talk." We have much to discuss."

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**February 12, 2001 (night)**

Bare headed, dressed in his finest black robes, Tanassov, with Draco as a side along, apparated into a large, strangely open meadow. Several bonfires burned at various locations, in no pattern Draco could discern, but what struck him was that the snow had melted, and a warming charm had been placed over the area to make it similar to a summer's eve. In a row across the field, seven veelas in white, flowing garments trimmed with rainbow coloured belts waited patiently, their long whitish hair lifting and blowing in the stiff breeze.

"I thought we came for your wedding," Draco whispered to Tanassov. The expression on his face implied that this was a highly unusual place and style for a wedding. And where were the rest of the guests? "I don't see a priest or judge. Don't you need to do this legally?"

"We had a legal service this afternoon in town. I also sent an owl to your Minister with my proposition," Tanassov answered. He seemed to be searching for something. "I need a male witness for this ceremony. Because of you, Luna has finally agreed to be my wife, so I chose you."

Why did that not make Draco feel very special at all?

Tanassov's dark eyes lit up as a willowy figure in a sheer, white, streaming outfit like layers of gauze entered the meadow, smiling dreamily. A wreath of flowers sat upon her head. With the seven veelas humming softly, she strolled to the center of the field, where a lone large rock was situated. Sitting down upon it, she turned her back to Tanassov and Draco.

"You stay here," Tanassov said in a tone too much like a warning for Draco's taste.

The tall man strode out into the meadow toward Luna, his shiny knee-length black boots crunching on the hard ground, then halted several meters away. To Malfoy's dismay, he began to sing, and his strong baritone carried to the far ends of the place. Whatever the song, it was in Bulgarian, and Draco caught only words here and there. Unless he was mistaken, it appeared as if Tanassov was wooing Luna, crooning a love song of sorts. He was surprisingly good.

Slowly, as the song unfolded, Luna shifted position bit by bit until she was facing her man. When it ended, she very delicately rose to her feet and began to sing back to him. Draco recognized it as another song, not a continuation of the last. She circled him, far enough away that he could barely touch her if he reached out, yet he did not. He held his ground, not even turning his head to look at her. When the fire nearest them crackled loudly and threw off sparks, neither seemed to notice, nor did the chilling wind blowing through the tops of the trees ringing the perimeter seem to faze them.

What was she saying? Not a love song…no, it was more like a declaration. "I choose only one. He calls to my heart, and my heart responds. I will not be…." Draco didn't comprehend the rest. Nevertheless, he smiled to himself, pleased to have understood so much at once. When he thought the ritual was through, to Draco's consternation, Tanassov dropped to his knees before her. Luna approached him, with all the other veelas encircling the pair to form a loose ring some distance from them.

With the veelas singing a haunting hymn in their own language, Luna started to dance, slowly and rhythmically at first, her hands over her head, her body swaying. She skipped round Tanassov as she danced, and this time he did extend his hand, grasping the trailing bit of her dress. Round and round him she went, picking up speed—and then it occurred to Draco that her dress appeared to be unraveling. Yes, it was winding about Tanassov as he knelt before her…and unwinding from Luna. Were those her nipples through the thin fabric remaining? Yes, those were indeed nipples. Draco gaped, not sure what to do. He should look away. Yes, he should. Why wasn't he looking away?

Luna halted in front of Tanassov, her chest heaving. "You have beckoned me, and I answered your call," Luna said in English. "I bind you to me as my husband, now and forever."

Staring directly at Luna, Tanassov replied, "It honours me to join with you, my wife. Now and forever."

All at once everyone turned to gaze at Draco, and he automatically looked behind him in case someone or something was approaching. "What?"

Luna smiled again, even as she unwound the gauzy dress from her husband. "Now Dimitar and I will consummate our union. It's tradition for the male guest to bear witness along with my sisters, though not mandatory. You're welcome to stay if you wish."

The I-will-kill-you glare shooting from Tanassov contradicted that statement most vehemently. There was a vague sort of familiarity in that glare, but where did he know it from? Ah—Uncle Severus. What was there about Potions professors that gave them such wicked looks?

"I-I sh-should probably go," Draco stammered. He'd already begun backing up. "Congratulations, and thank you for everything." He spun on his heel, ran off a few steps, and disapparated back to the dragon camp where he felt safe, where things were normal.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 13, 2001**

The corridors of St. Mungo's Incurable Wing were quiet, dimly lit as they were every night when the residents had gone to bed. In the distance, muffled sounds of parchment and quill scratched along somewhere in someone's office. Two nurses joked with an orderly at the front desk; their laughter echoed back along the hallways. The halls themselves seemed ghostly, deserted. Disguised with glamour charms designed to resemble two day workers at the facility, Aline and Severus peeked their heads round the corner for a furtive glance before darting the last few meters to the Longbottoms' room. As anticipated, it was unsecured, and they slipped inside.

Severus closed the door without a noise and shook the ragged leaves from the bush near the side door off of his pantleg. That side door, although locked, had presented no problem with the plethora of spells at his disposal. In fact, if it weren't for the niggling dread of getting caught, being publicly humiliated, and sent to Azkaban, he might actually enjoy this little jaunt.

He leaned over to his wife and hissed, "Just to clarify, we couldn't have asked Neville's permission _why_?"

"For someone as smart and capable as you, it's a wonder you never pay attention," she grumbled in return as she approached the first bed. "Neville is on a retreat, slogging through the rainforests of the Amazon. He's been gone for two months, and no one knows exactly where he is."

The wizard stopped and gaped at her for a second. "Really?"

"Why do you think he hasn't been around the school?" she exclaimed.

He shrugged, feeling slightly foolish. How many other tidbits of information had passed him by unnoticed? He really ought to stay on top of the game. Since his spying days, he'd gone seriously downhill, and he found he didn't like it much at all. "I thought he was staying out of my way to curry my favour."

"Because that's the Gryffindor way," she replied sarcastically, smirking like a Slytherin.

"Do you want my help or not?" he snapped.

He moved to the bedside of Frank, who was sleeping peacefully, every so often letting out a light snore. In his present state he seemed so tranquil, so normal. Snape would have cast a spell to keep the man from waking, except even when awake Frank was basically catatonic, unmoving, unspeaking. He pulled back the covers, sat Frank up, looped his arms under the man's armpits and under his legs, and lifted the dead weight into the wheelchair Aline had brought from the corner of the room. Aline unfolded the delicate bit of material she'd brought along and draped it over Frank, letting it fall just to the floor, and adjusted it to make sure it didn't get caught in the wheels. Instantly Frank and the wheelchair disappeared.

"Wow, you weren't kidding. This cloak of Harry's really works!" she said in a low yet admiring voice.

"Yes, it's bloody fantastic," he concurred with a sidelong glance at the exit. He arranged a stack of blankets in the bed and pulled the covers over them, then stepped back to examine the result. Amateurish, predictable…but good enough.

Together they went to the door, peered out to see if the coast was clear, and he held the door for her as she casually strolled out pushing the invisible chair. Thinking she looked rather odd walking with her hands in strange little fists in front of her, he motioned for her to change position. She cocked her head and shot him a what-the-heck-am-I-supposed-to-do look, then let her cloak fall over her hands to conceal them.

Severus scouted round the bend, then motioned for her to hurry. He opened the exit leading to the side garden of the hospital, almost shoving her through in his haste. Immediately he yanked off the cloak; Aline used her wand to levitate Frank and set him behind the bushes lining the walk, cast a warming charm on him; Severus replaced the cloak on the chair, and they hurried back to the Longbottoms' room.

They drew near to Alice's bed, and the witch sat halfway up, clearly confused. "Who are you? Is it morning?"

While this was no time to be making idle chatter, it seemed prudent to be personable, so Aline said, "We're going on a trip. Isn't that exciting? Can you come sit in this chair for me?"

Alice clapped merrily, making Severus cringe and whirl to the door again. "I love trips! Is it to the place you live where they talk strange?" She threw aside her bedclothes, jumped to the floor, and slid into the wheelchair.

"Yes, it is," Aline confirmed, grimacing more at her husband's discomfort than any fear of discovery. "We have to be super quiet, though. It's a secret." Aline cast a _muffliato_ about the woman lest she continue rambling to her heart's content. "We need to hide you, too, so be very still." So saying, she placed the invisibility cloak over the woman, arranging it carefully once more. To her surprise and relief, Alice sat stiff as a board, unmoving, except for the gentle jiggling of the chair that indicated she was giggling.

By now Severus had completed his task of stuffing the bed with pillows, and he again held the door once he'd established it was safe to leave. They followed the same procedure, this time leaving the wheelchair on the walk as Snape stuffed the cloak into his pocket. He didn't look forward to returning it to the Brat Wonder, who'd want to know how the escapade had gone, and then he'd have to _talk_ to Potter, and he wasn't sure he was up to that. He was never up to that. Especially when it involved an exploit so obviously illegal, an antic he'd have raked Potter over the coals for doing. Aline had finagled the cloak from him, maybe she ought to be the one to return it.

Ducking behind the bushes, kneeling in the snow, Aline held tightly to Alice, and Severus grasped Frank firmly. Severus dug about beneath the bush to produce the portkey; they took hold of what appeared to be a tattered child's kite that had once been a majestic dragon but was now merely a simpering piece of ripped green fabric with broken rods and a missing tail. A moment later they were sucked away. At least Snape had the consolation that it couldn't be traced by the British Ministry, for it had been bought in America and sent the old-fashioned owl way.

When they landed in a snow-covered field outside Andover, Lonny was waiting for them in the late afternoon light. "Aline? Severus?" he asked, giving a curious glance at the other two in pajamas.

"We're here with two patients abducted from the mental ward of a hospital. Who else would we be?" Aline retorted, rolling her eyes.

"Well, forgive me, your majesty," her brother snapped back. "That short, blond, spiky hair and button nose isn't exactly the way I remember my sister."

Aline didn't answer, she merely shot her wand into her hand to remove her disguise. Severus did the same. Alice got up and waved at the new nice man, though the silencing spell still in effect kept her from prattling on to him.

Alonzo gestured at the Longbottoms. "Did you forget to give them wraps? It's cold here."

"It's cold there, too, and yes I forgot," Aline admitted. She cast another warming charm over the both of them. She turned to Severus and proceeded to kiss him hard on the mouth. "Thank you, darling. I'll let you know as soon as we find out anything."

"Yes, my love. And I'll let you know if I'm arrested," he replied drolly. For now, it would be wise to make a public appearance, perhaps in Diagon Alley, where any number of witnesses could attest that he had been otherwise occupied, and thus could not possibly have been involved in the kidnapping of patients from the hospital. As if he w_ould_ do such a thing. With a wave to Alonzo, he disapparated.

Aline motioned to her brother. "Don't just stand there, help me get them out of here. White Elk is waiting."


	70. Make or Break

16

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 70 (Make or Break)

**November 2, 1943**

Lewis Mulciber lay splayed on his bed, idly watching his roommate cast the hex over and over on the bed post. The invisible curse wrapped itself round the post, Tom gave a light tug, and the post jiggled perceptibly. "Looks like you've got the bed…will it work on a person?" he asked with a smirk.

Tom looked up at him. He'd spent the better part of a week formulating the perfect untraceable curse to use on the Gryffindor seeker to make sure he didn't participate in the upcoming game, thus ensuring a Slytherin win. He had to make sure it didn't fail. "Of course it will work. Have you ever known me to create a curse that didn't?"

"Too bad Nott graduated last year, he'd love to see this," remarked the former. Said seeker had been a rival for the affections of Nott's girlfriend, and while Nott had been the victor, it would still be sweet to watch the Gryffindork squirm.

Tom stood up and slipped his wand into his pocket. Time was growing short, and if he intended to injure the seeker before the game, he'd best get at it. "Let's go to breakfast. I can cast the spell on him there, and at the right moment give it the requisite tug to send him plummeting to his doom." He actually laughed, a high pitched version of the evil scientists on radio broadcasts he'd listened to as a child.

They met up with Dolohov, Rosier, and Lestrange in the common room, and together they walked to the Great Hall, where they seated themselves at their table as always. Tom made sure to sit with his back to the wall, facing the rest of the Hall to give him a good view of where everyone was. His companions were already on the lookout, keeping watch on not only the target, but anyone else who may be nosy enough to be observing them.

The target, Bremly, sat at the end of his table as always, which made Riddle sneer. How predictable. While it made his task easier, it also made it somehow less fun. Breakfast passed uneventfully, with the Slytherins carefully monitoring the situation as Bremly unwittingly ate and laughed with his friends. When the gang of Slytherins had all signaled that the coast was clear, Tom covertly took out his wand, aimed it under the table, and let the curse fly. It struck Bremly's ankle and draped itself around a few times, all without the slightest touch to alert the victim. When Bremly had finished and got up to leave, Tom did the same.

He sauntered the corridor some distance behind the seeker, pretending to be reading a textbook, and when Bremly mounted the moving staircase, Riddle had to hide a smile of glee. It was time. He held his wand fast in his fist, eyes alight with anticipation, book still open across one arm, heart pounding with the excitement of the hunt.

Bremly took the stairs two at a time, and he'd reached the first landing when Tom slammed into another student hurrying toward the stairs. She bounced off him and dropped her book on the stone floor. "What are you—" he began irritably, and then recognized who it was.

"Oh, Tom! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." Minerva picked up the book she'd been studying, even as she noted that he'd been doing the same. No wonder he was so smart, Head Boy: he studied all the time like she did.

"Minerva, I…I kind of…" He peered around her. Bremly was crossing to a higher level. If he didn't do it now, he may lose his chance, but how could he with _her_ here? "I was sort of in a hurry."

"Me, too," Minerva gushed, nodding in commiseration. "I need to review all my work before the big match."

_Just__ give__ the __invisible __cord __a __tug __and__ he__'__ll__ trip,__ come__ crashing __down__ the __staircase_. "You shouldn't be reading on the stairs, it's dangerous," he heard himself say. What the hell was he doing? "Remember, you fell before."

"And you saved me," she said in a quiet, adoring tone. "I remember."

A group of Gryffindors had somehow entered the picture on the upper level, and they congregated round the seeker, mouthing words of praise and encouragement on the game to come. Swearing in his mind, Tom gazed up at them and back at Minerva. With them in the way, he couldn't be sure Bremly would fall—in fact, surrounded as he was, it was highly unlikely. Damn it, his whole plan was shattered in the space of a second!

And then it happened. One of the Gryffindors congenially slapped the seeker on the back, and as the rest watched in horror, his foot slipped off the step, he did an exaggerated version of the splits, and he tumbled off the plateau, where he proceeded to thump down the stairs head over heels, gaining momentum till one of the girls shot a spell to freeze him in place, and they all ran down to meet him.

Minerva, gaping along with the rest, gasped, "Oh, my!" She started off in the direction of the seeker, turned back to Tom, and said, "I'm glad we got to talk a bit. I hope he's alright!" Then she raced to her House mate.

Tom merely stood there staring, slightly bewildered. He hadn't done it. He hadn't used the curse or even tried to cause it to happen with his mind (which was less reliable, and hence his need for the curse). And yet, as if the Fates were favouring him, Bremly had fallen as planned. Turning away, he smiled to himself and walked in the direction of the dungeons.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Nov. 2, 1943_

_ Slytherin won today's match practically by default. Bremly tripped down the stairs, of all clumsy things to do, and broke his leg and arm. Of course, I'd planned for him to do so, only I had no hand in it. Sort of a letdown. Yes, the objective was achieved, and my comrades in arms congratulated me heartily on it…I couldn't tell them I had nothing to do with it, that I was busy fraternizing with the enemy._

_ Minerva. I rarely see her now, except in the Hall or once in a while on the lawn. It's for the best, and yet whenever I talk to her I feel different. I'm not sure I like that feeling. It makes me—I don't know—out of control. I definitely do not like that. When I graduate in the spring, I won't have to see her anymore, I won't have to fight these strange emotions that she stirs up. Yes, it's for the best._

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**February 13, 2001**

"He's heavier than he looks," Lonny complained to his sister the moment he'd apparated in front of White Elk's dome-shaped hut of cedar saplings, covered with bark.

Frank, draped over his arms and hanging limply, made no sound or movement. It wasn't that Lonny was weak, for he wasn't, but dead weight always seemed heavier than live. He considered dropping the man in the snow, but as the structure was only mere feet away, he supposed he could carry him the remainder of the way. In the dim light of dusk, their shadows lengthened and danced bizarrely on the dark snow.

Aline, who'd arrived seconds earlier, gave her brother a twisted face. In her embrace, Alice struggled to be free. "At least Frank isn't wiggling like a kitten. And you're stronger than me." She unwrapped her arms from Alice's body and took hold of her hand to lead her into the hut.

"Really?" Lonny challenged her, amused. "So if I tried to attack you, you couldn't kick my ass?"

"That's different and you know it," Aline snapped. Clearly he referred to the unnatural strength she and her family possessed in relation to their clairvoyance, which manifested only in a defensive posture. It never ceased to amaze her how Lonny could joke about it, being that he'd once had the same powerful clairvoyant ability as their sister Abigail, and had lost it due to his own stupid actions.

Just then, White Elk pulled aside the bear skin hanging over the doorway opening, causing a puff of smoke from the hole in the roof directly above the fire inside. To their evident surprise, he was dressed in a breechclout, leggings with fur inside strapped to his legs, a buckskin shirt, and elk skin moccasins. In his hair he wore a single turkey feather, and around his collar a necklace of shells and beads. On the leather belt round his waist, he wore a small leather sack. He tried to hide his smirk at the astonishment of the pair gaping at him from the snow.

"Bring them into the wetu," he said, gesturing toward his hut.

"I thought you didn't dress like this," Aline said as she passed by, unable to take her eyes off him.

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "As a rule, I don't. However, this is a tough case, so I figured I'd wear the traditional garb to please my ancestors. Every little bit of help counts."

When everyone was inside, he let the flap fall shut. In the hut, one on either side of the gaily dancing fire, set metal tubs full of warm water, whose steam emanated upward in the cool air. He instructed the witch and wizard to gather round while he intoned the opening prayer, and they obligingly dragged Frank and Alice along with them. Alice, due to her chatty nature, still had the silencing spell upon her. From a wooden box shoved against the wall, he removed a gourd of sea salt, held it up, and began:

"In the name of the Great Spirit and of my ancestors, I call upon thee, oh creatures of earth and water. Come forth, cleanse Alice and Frank of all evil and alien magicks, and restore them to balance and health. By our wills combined, so mote it be."

He poured a good quantity of the salt into each of the tubs, swished it round with his hand, then approached Alice. He took her feet, leaving Aline to support her shoulders, and they lifted her into the first bath, immersing her to the neck. While Aline stayed there to watch her, he helped Alonzo get Frank into the second tub.

"I hate to say this, but we're going to need to submerge their heads, at least for a few seconds," White Elk stated, cocking his head and giving a 'sorry about that' expression. The damage had been done to the brain, that was the part most in need of healing.

Lonny nodded, placed his hand on top of Frank's head, and was all set to push down when Aline barked, "Lonny, not like that! You'll drown him."

"When's the last time you performed an ancient ritual like this, Aline?" he shot back. "Oh, wait—never!"

White Elk, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, intervened before the siblings could get into a brawl. "Here, let me do it. Lonny, support his shoulders on your side, and I'll do the same on my side. Let's lower him enough to make his head droop back. We really only need the top and back of the head submerged, not the face."

The two men did as White Elk suggested, letting Frank's skull rest in the water for a minute or so before bringing him back to a seated position. Frank stared blankly at the ceiling the entire time, seemingly oblivious to what was happening. Then the pau wau came over to Aline and assisted her in doing the same, while Alice thrashed and made it very plain she was not enjoying this part of the rite. White Elk had to forcibly press her forehead to keep her submerged. Once she was sitting up again, her smile returned and she looked around at the wetu, her hair dripping down her back.

For ten minutes or so, the patients sat in the water. When White Elk determined enough time had passed, the magical siblings vanished the water according to his directions, then carefully rinsed off Alice and Frank, using spouts of water from their wands that fell into the now empty tubs. They levitated them from the tubs, and cast drying charms to keep them from catching cold, all the while unmindful of the consternation on White Elk's face as he watched the things they could do.

"Um…could you move the tubs outside now?" he asked to no one in particular. It wasn't strictly necessary, but they were heavy and he'd prefer not to do it himself manually when they'd gone.

"Sure," said Lonny, easily levitating one of the metal baths and guiding it outside, where he set it beside the hut. The other tub followed summarily, and Lonny rejoined them.

White Elk faced Alice and Frank, who'd been seated on the bearskin rug facing him. He chanted the final prayer:

"I thank thee, oh creatures of earth and water, in the name of the Great Spirit and of my ancestors. Be released to your homes, doing no harm on your way, and return to me with glad hearts when next you are summoned. By our wills combined, so mote it be."

At first no one stirred, not sure if it was finished, or what they ought to be doing. Frank groaned and turned his head ever so slightly toward Alonzo, looking as if he wanted to talk but was unable to do so.

"Aline, he talked—well, not really, but he's doing _something_!" Lonny exclaimed excitedly.

Sharing his excitement, Aline said, "White Elk, did it work?"

The pau wau shook his head, and their hearts fell. Several days of meditation and communion with his ancestors had given him the course of action he must take, one that included more than a simple curse breaker. "You see an improvement because the curse has been broken. Now I must pray for the healing of their brains. As we discussed before, the translation of this curse means 'tear the mind'. Bellatrix may have thought it would open their minds to her, but in reality it tore them asunder. They must be put back in order if there's any hope of recovery."

So saying, he knelt before them, removed the leather pouch from his belt, and emptied the contents onto the rug. Various stalks of herbs and plants, and a few other things tumbled out, including some that Aline recognized as mind-altering substances, such as henbane and toad skin and marijuana. He selected the henbane and toad skin, scooped the rest back into the bag, and set it aside. Breaking off a few leaves of henbane, he dropped it into the tiny pot of water simmering over the fire, followed by a segment of the toad skin.

"You'll need to move out of the way," he said, motioning for the wizard and witch to flatten themselves against the wall. He sat cross-legged in front of the fire, poured a cup of the new tea, and let it cool a bit before drinking it down. He smiled up at them and murmured, "Forgive me for not offering you any. I doubt you'd appreciate the effects."

After only a few minutes, he closed his eyes and began to sway, almost imperceptibly at first. The motion gained momentum, a delicate, gentle rocking of his head side to side until it became a full body sway. He stood up, reached behind him to the wall where a conch shell hung by a leather thong, and grasped it tightly in one hand. The presence of tiny pebbles inside made it rattle softly.

In a painfully slow shuffle dance, shaking the shell at certain intervals, White Elk began to circle the patients while singing in a low voice in the native language of his ancestors. He no longer appeared aware of Aline or Lonny. As time went on, his pace quickened along with the increase in volume and intensity of his song, his rattle raised high, then low, his voice filling the space and making the onlookers feel empty all at once. On and on it went in a mesmerizing fashion, time slipping by unnoticed. By the time he'd reached a frenzied dance, Aline and Lonny were clutching each other and staring in wonder. Suddenly he stopped in place, the song ended, and he dropped to the ground on his knees, doubled over so far his hair brushed the rug, panting as if he'd run a marathon. The shell slipped from his hand to the floor.

"White Elk? Are you alright?" Aline said, moving toward him.

The Medicine Man, unable to speak at the moment, merely pointed at the mental patients.

Frank turned his head and looked directly at the witch standing over the man on the floor. "Who are you, and how did I get here?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 14, 2001**

"You didn't bring the boy? I specifically asked you to," Shacklebolt growled, starting out of his seat before forcing himself to sit down again. A physical confrontation might feel good for a little while, but it would come back to bite him on the arse. Everything always did.

Lucius, his grey eyes mere slits of pure hatred, gave an obviously fake, tight smile. "I wanted to see the new parents for myself. I won't give Marcus over to custody of just anyone."

"And you think I will?" challenged the other.

"The werewolf lad named Tim comes to mind," Lucius responded dryly. "He ran away after one day. Have you found him yet?"

Shacklebolt ground his teeth, seething over how he despised Malfoy. The blond prat knew damned well he and his aurors had not found the child, and they'd all breathed a sigh of relief when no attacks or murders were reported on the full moon. Nonetheless, it was a thorn in his side. He'd not asked for these children to come to him, and he'd done his best to find them homes once they'd arrived, including little Marcus.

In point of fact, he'd been close to a final decision on a family when the Headmaster from Durmstrang Institute had sent him an owl—er, eagle—announcing his desire to adopt the boy, along with the reasons he'd make the ideal candidate. It was an intriguing proposition, no question: the wizard was a well respected teacher, a medical doctor and Potions master capable of making the necessary Wolfsbane for Marcus, Luna Lovegood Tanassov for a loving, if strange, mother—and in Bulgaria, it was not widely known that the boy was a werewolf, which proved a drawback here in England. Like it or not, werewolves were discriminated against for being who they were; Marcus could have a much more normal life in Bulgaria. Getting Marcus far away from Malfoy, while a worthy goal in itself, was just gravy.

"Mr. Malfoy, this is going to happen with or without your cooperation. Dimitar Tanassov—I believe you know of him—will be coming to collect the child shortly." Shacklebolt motioned to the door, which was closed behind Lucius. "I could call in my men to drag you home and fetch Marcus, humiliating you in front of your family, and possibly traumatizing the lot of you. _Or_…you can go home now, prepare the child, and wait for me to arrive. I will notify Dr. Tanassov to meet us there."

"How can you do this?" Lucius shrieked, not caring who heard him, and rather hoping someone did. "The boy watched his parents being murdered by Greyback! He then lost the only protector he had to Azkaban over two years ago. His pack are dead or all gone. Now, when he feels happy and secure, you want to rip him away again! What kind of a monster are you?"

"How dare you compare me to the likes of you, a degenerate who'd join the ranks of Voldemort?" Kingsley hissed, rising from his seat. "I have no idea what sickness lies in your mind, but my only intentions for this child are to see to it that he is well cared for and happy."

"He is that now!" Lucius shouted.

Kingsley picked up a small bell from his desk and rang it; in an instant two aurors rushed inside, wands drawn. "Gentlemen, escort Mr. Malfoy to the floo."

They started to take hold of Lucius' arms, but he shook them off while growling, "Let go of me! I can walk on my own." So saying, he straightened up, chin held high, and stormed out, his cloak swirling behind him.

He stomped out of the fireplace at Malfoy Manor, not caring about the ash in his hair or on his clothing, seething with fury. He flung his cane across the room, where it struck a lamp, which toppled over with a crash that sent Narcissa rushing in.

She stopped short, a quick study telling her all she needed to know: Shacklebolt was adamant about removing Marcus from them. And from the looks of it, they hadn't much time. She burst into tears and ran into her husband's arms. "What did he say?"

"They're coming today," Lucius whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

"Wh—who?" she asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"Tanassov and Luna. At least we got that much." He buried his face in her hair, not trusting himself to speak any more.

He and Narcissa, through Draco, had orchestrated Tanassov's involvement, imploring his aid. Fortunately for them, the Headmaster and his new wife had been willing to entertain the idea of adopting a muggle werewolf boy, and had been open to the notion of allowing the Malfoys to participate in the boy's life, whereas any other family Shacklebolt may have selected would have closed the Malfoys out completely. Marcus would be taken away, they'd feared and known it all along, but they'd be permitted to see him, to write to him and visit him; he would remain in their lives, even if not as their son. At this point, it was the most they could hope for.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Tanassov and Luna arrived at the Malfoy estate an hour ahead of schedule in order to speak with the Malfoys before Minister Shacklebolt showed up. For his part, Dimitar had no reservations about allowing his adopted son to keep in contact with the Malfoys; he was a good judge of character, he could discern what kind of people they were despite what the Ministry seemed to think. Even Luna, who'd been held captive here at one time on Voldemort's order, held no animosity toward them. That said, he did have reservations about yanking the boy away so suddenly after all he'd been through. There was a limit to the trauma a child could face before it overwhelmed him.

They met in the front parlor, seated awkwardly facing each other. Marcus sat cozily between the Malfoys on the long sofa facing the piano, while Tanassov and Luna took the loveseat opposite them.

"Thank you for accepting our plea, and for coming early," Lucius said softly. One arm rested on Marcus' shoulders and gave a light squeeze. "We've tried to prepare him…." He looked away for a moment.

"We didn't know quite what to say," Narcissa added quietly. She directed the boy's attention to the newcomers. "These are the people we told you about. They're very nice, they'll be good to you." Her voice choked off, her lips quivering.

Marcus got up, went to the loveseat, and extended a hand. "I'm Marcus. It's a pleasure to meet you." He shook Luna's hand, then Dimitar's, then looked back at Lucius as if expecting feedback on his performance. Lucius smiled and nodded, and the boy beamed.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well," Luna said, smiling in her dreamy way. "I look forward to being your new Mummy."

Marcus glanced at Narcissa, faltering. "But…what are you then, Miss Narcissa?"

"She will be your Aunt Narcissa," Dimitar said. He couldn't bear to see the agony on her face, and on that of her husband. "And this is your Uncle Lucius."

"Don't cry Miss—Aunt Narcissa," Marcus cajoled, hurrying to her to pet her hair and hug her. "I knew…I knew I couldn't stay when the brown man came before and yelled at Mr—Uncle Lucius, and said he'd take him to prison. I don't wanna make trouble for you."

"You're not trouble, darling," she cried, throwing her arms round him and squeezing so hard he squeaked.

"Lucius," Dimitar said over Narcissa's sobbing, "Luna and I have discussed this. We think it best if we get to know Marcus before we take him to Bulgaria."

"We'd like to visit with him several times, let him get used to us," Luna chimed in. "We realize he'd be frightened to leave you and go with people he doesn't even know."

"So if it is agreeable with you, we can arrange a schedule whereby we take him on outings alone for increasingly longer periods of time," Tanassov finished.

Lucius almost burst into tears of relief, but he swallowed them and nodded. "I had worried about that, too. Shacklebolt doesn't seem to care, he only wants to get Marcus away from me as soon as possible."

"When he arrives, we will leave with Marcus, and bring him back a few hours later," Tanassov said. "The Minister need never know."

"I don't know how to thank you," Lucius whispered.

"When I'm gone, I can still come visit, can't I?" Marcus piped up. He'd turned his head to listen to the adults talking about him. "And you'll visit me, won't you?"

"Yes, Marcus, they will," Tanassov assured him. "As often as they can."

Suddenly Lucius lifted his head and said, "Tell everyone he's a squib."

"I'm a squid?" repeated Marcus, cocking his head.

"Squib," Luna said, beckoning him over. "It means a child born to magical parents, but who doesn't have magic himself."

Narcissa picked up Lucius' train of thought. "It will be easier for him when he goes to live at Durmstrang, around all those witches and wizards. If they knew he was a muggle, they…well, it's better this way."

"I agree," Tanassov said, nodding. "They will also not find out he is a werewolf. We wish him to have a normal life."

"As do we," Lucius concurred.

Tanassov got up and extended his hand to Luna, who took it and rose gracefully. He bowed slightly in Narcissa's direction, and shook Lucius' hand. "We should go. The Minister will be here soon. We will return in perhaps half an hour."

It wouldn't do to have the British Minister think Tanassov was fraternizing with Malfoy behind his back. Once the final papers were signed today, he could legally do as he pleased, but until then he had to watch the situation very closely, for everyone's sake. If the option existed to leave the boy with Lucius and Narcissa permanently, he would do so, but he'd seen the antagonism in the Minister's face. Marcus would be leaving the Malfoy estate one way or another if Shacklebolt had any say in it. If Marcus were to be left behind after the signing of the adoption papers, eventually someone would discover the child was here at the manor, and all hell would break loose. Lucius would certainly go to prison, his family would be crushed, Tanassov's reputation would be sullied…there was too much at stake. And Dimitar really didn't mind the idea of having a son.

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**February 14, 2001**

"I suppose you've heard about the disappearance of the Longbottoms from St. Mungo's," Lucius said offhandedly with a sidelong glance at his companion from the large, private box in the stadium where the Annual Broom Air Show was taking place before the scheduled Quidditch match. Severus had come by unexpectedly, it being well known he didn't care for Quidditch, and Lucius suspected it had something to do with needing someone to talk to besides two six-month-old twins.

"Yes, I am aware," Severus answered levelly. He had no intention of blabbing his involvement to Lucius or anyone else, certainly not in a public forum. "On another topic, I need to gain access to Charlotte in order to determine why the Wolfsbane didn't work on her."

"I heard about that. Poor Henry." Lucius twisted halfway round, Khala sleeping on his breast and Ladon sitting on the floor of the box playing with Snape's children. "Have Potter convince the girl to cooperate."

"Because I so love chatting with Potter," Severus replied sarcastically. Suddenly, as a hellacious odor wafted his way, he demanded, "Oh, my God! Aidan, what did you eat? Sorry, Adriel, for a second you looked like your brother."

Lucius wrinkled his nose at the smell as he commented dryly, "For a second? They're identical twins, Severus! They always look like one another."

Snape lifted a black eyebrow. "Not to me." Groaning in disgust, he hastily laid down a clean blanket, set Adriel on it, removed the baby's pantaloons, and slid the dirty nappy off, stifling a gag. This was the third time today changing a heavily soiled nappy, which meant his other son was likely to shoot out a batch soon. As he washed the area with a cloth wetted by his wand, he grumbled, "Sometimes I wish I could pawn them off on somebody else and be done with it."

Wrong thing to say at this particular point in time. Lucius rounded on him, eyes blazing, lips pinched into a thin line. "What a wretched thing to say! You have two beautiful sons and you wish them gone. Do you have any idea—"

"Whoa, Lucius!" Severus interrupted, holding up a hand he could ill spare with Adriel wriggling on the floor, trying to crawl away, diaper free. He'd seen his friend on the lecture kick, and was in no mood to be the recipient. "You know bloody well I love these boys with everything in me, and I'd never give them up. It was a figure of speech. What's got up your arse?" All at once his own eyes widened with understanding. In a hushed tone he said, "They're taking Marcus, aren't they?"

Lucius' head bobbed up and down slowly. "Shacklebolt is hell bent on removing him from our family. Narcissa and I sent Draco to implore Dimitar Tanassov to adopt him with the stipulation that we still have access to him. He and Luna are with Marcus now…they've already signed the papers. They agreed to let us keep him for a short while, until they become acquainted."

"I'm sorry," Severus said softly. He wrapped his son in a clean nappy, fastened his clothing, and let him scurry across the floor with his brother and Ladon. Grimacing, he vanished the soiled nappy.

Lucius thumped the solid wood railing with his fist. "It's not fair. I know I shouldn't care, him being a muggle and all, but…he's different."

"How so?"

"He's clever and funny, eager to please, quick witted." Lucius' face shone as he spoke of the child, though it soon clouded over. "Much the same way you're different from other halfbreeds."

"You know, I've heard tell that Lucius Malfoy is capable of a suave, diplomatic side. I've yet to see it exercised on my behalf," Snape retorted drolly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, suppressing a groan. Honestly, Snape could be so sensitive. "That was a compliment. I meant that to me you've always been pureblood, regardless of your father. Likewise, Marcus isn't just a muggle boy." He sighed and looked out across the field, where a team of flyers roared in a formation doing loops and twists as the crowd cheered wildly. He barely noticed what normally would have thrilled him to see. "If you'd told me only a month ago that I'd be fighting to keep a muggle boy in my home, I'd have called you mad."

"Hoist with your own petard, my friend?"

Lucius squinted at him. "Meaning?"

"You used Marcus to bring yourself and your name prestige and praise. You never intended to love him, only to care for him until a family was found…and now that you do love him, it's tearing you apart that he'll be taken away."

Laughing mirthlessly, Lucius said bitterly, "I wish I could claim any part of that statement is false. And the irony of it all is that—aside from the aforementioned petard hoisting—if I had not involved the Ministry when I brought the children here, I could have adopted Marcus without any problem."

"Mine!" Ladon screamed, lashing out at the baby stealing his blocks and toys.

"Ladon, behave yourself," Lucius said in a hushed tone as he bent down to lift the boy onto his lap. It woke Khala, who whined and snuggled into her father's breast even further.

Severus scooped up Aidan and set him down on the other side of the box, handing him a cracker to chew on. Aidan happily sat up and gnawed on the hard wafer. "I think you're wrong," he said.

"Wrong about what?"

Severus, free at last for a moment, got up and sat on the chair beside Lucius. He held out his hands to Ladon, who scooted onto his uncle's lap and plunked himself down as if he belonged there. "If you'd not brought the Ministry in, how would you have found the families of Brooke and Roger? How would you know whether Marcus had a family to return to? The children would have languished at your beach house together till it was all sorted out, and then you'd be charged with finding families for them all. In all probability you wouldn't have taken Marcus home because he'd have been content with his pack mates, so you wouldn't have become attached to him."

It made sense, and it was probably true, but that didn't mean he had to accept it. Sulking, Lucius muttered, "What kind of best friend are you anyway?"

"A piss poor one, apparently," Snape drawled. "But the best you've got. At least you won't be cut off from Marcus entirely. That's something, isn't it?"

"Yes," Lucius acknowledged, gazing across the field again. "That's something."


	71. Testing and Trying

18

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 71 (Testing and Trying)

**February 15, 2001**

"Thank you for letting me come outside for a while," Therese said to Madam Pomfrey. She squatted in the snow ringing the castle and with her bare hands gathered up a large mound to build into a snowball.

"You're very welcome. Children need fresh air," the older witch answered, keeping her distance from the girl as per Snape's instructions. She was only to approach if necessary, otherwise she was to allow Tom to believe he had a serious aliment, and was therefore not to come in contact with others, even the healer. She felt bad for keeping the girl away from other students for so long, even to the point of bringing her outside the castle walls rather than risk interaction with students in the courtyard. Still, if Tom Riddle was in there, one could never be too careful.

She sat on a bench near the castle wall and leaned back. She'd always liked the cold, the crispness in the air, the fresh smell of pine wafting from the Forbidden Forest. It was such a shame to confine a child inside on such lovely days. Therese was acting like a regular student now, at least most of the time whenever Poppy was about…she had begun to wonder if Tom was gone, or at least subdued. She didn't wonder when she heard the following exchange.

"My hands are cold." That awful boy voice.

"They're my hands, and I like them that way." The girl voice. She popped a toffee into her mouth and sucked lustily.

A few moments later, the toffee came hurtling from her mouth, spit into the snow. "You know I don't like those nasty things! You're a vile, spiteful girl and I hate you." He threw the snowball down in a temper.

"You hate everything, you obnoxious prat," Therese responded, bending over to scoop up more snow. "If you'd leave me alone and go find your own body, we could both be happy."

"I don't know where it is!" Tom howled, and to Poppy he looked on the verge of tears. "Its not my fault it's gone, you know. Why can't you share? Why can't we try to be friends?" Ah, the old charm she'd heard about in the young Tom was finally coming out. "If you'd be nice to me, I'd be nice to you."

Therese appeared unperturbed. "I never asked for you to come in. Why would I want you in here? It's awfully crowded, and you're mean and snotty, and try to take over."

"I won't! Not anymore," he pleaded. "I'm older than you, thirteen now. I can teach you so much I learned in books you can't even find in Hogwarts."

There was a long pause that made Poppy's skin crawl. Was Therese actually considering it? Or was Tom merely in control at the moment? At last the girl scooped up another snowball and threw it at the castle wall, where it splattered and clung to the stone.

"No, I think not," Therese said at last. "In case you didn't realize, Tommy, I already know everything you do. I'd much prefer to scratch your eyes out than share my body with you any longer." She hummed as she began walking in circles, dragging her feet in the snow to form a path.

Poppy waited for a sharp rejoinder, and was somewhat surprised when one didn't come. Therese was winning, that was evident; had she won? She'd need to consult with Severus and see what his opinion was on the matter. Until then, she'd treat the child as always, giving no indication that she'd noted anything amiss, nor giving hope of leaving the infirmary any time soon. Until Therese was Tom-free entirely, it was simply not safe to let her loose on the Hogwarts population. And she'd best check in on her to make sure she was still reading that blasted diary that had caused all this trouble to begin with.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 15, 2001**

Things were better…and not. A day and a half ago, White Elk had performed a ceremony that appeared to have mended the Longbottoms' brains, restoring their coherence and intelligence. The night of the healing, White Elk had taken Alice and Frank to the home of a friend, where the witch and wizard siblings had given them a heavy-duty sleeping potion. In the morning, they'd been prepared for rejoicing, only to be slapped in the face with a colossal setback: the couple had absolutely no memory of anything that had occurred before the night of the healing. In fact, to everyone's dejection, even their retention of the past day seemed hit and miss as Aline and Lonny tried to explain who they were and why the Longbottoms were here.

Sitting at the breakfast table, her patience wearing thin at the continual questions about the same things, for the third time Aline explained, "…and it's because of what Bellatrix did to you that you ended up in a mental hospital. We brought you here to have White Elk heal you, which he did…sort of. I mean, you can talk and function now."

"So…who are you again?" asked Frank, turning to her from the window where he'd been watching the few remaining birds that hadn't migrated hop about the yard searching for food. "Do I know you?"

"No, you don't know me," Aline sighed. "You knew my husband, Severus Snape."

"Snape," repeated Alice. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"He was in the Order of the Phoenix with you," Lonny supplied.

"Whatever that is," Alice muttered. She spread a coat of butter over her toast before realizing she'd already done that. She paused, knife held in her hand pointing toward the ceiling. "And I'm a witch?"

"Yes. And your husband is a wizard, as is your son," said Lonny.

"We have a son?" asked Frank, eyes comically wide, as if it were the first time he'd been thus informed.

"His name is Neville. He works with me and Severus at Hogwarts," Aline said. She was suddenly wishing she'd served beer instead of pumpkin juice. It would make coping easier.

Alice snorted and put the knife back next to the butter dish. "I think I'd remember if I had a son."

"_You__ don__'__t __remember __anything!__ That__'__s__ the__ problem!_" Aline shrieked, slamming the table with her palm and making the Longbottoms jump.

Frank edged round her and over toward Lonny, where he whispered conspiratorially, "Is your wife always so volatile?"

Grinning, Lonny replied, "She's my sister. And yes." Evading the death glare the witch had obviously learned from Snape, he added, "Aline, chill."

Aline held back a plethora of unkind responses, took a deep breath, and said, "Let's finish breakfast, then we can go visit Abby."

"Why would we go to an abbey?" asked Alice.

Before his sister could explode again, Alonzo cut in, "Our older sister is Abigail. She's clairvoyant, and may be able to offer insight into the situation."

Alice looked down at her rumpled green hospital pajamas, then shook her head vehemently. "I'm not going anywhere looking like this."

Not trusting herself to argue just now, Aline took out her wand and waved it over the woman's clothing to transfigure them into stylish, deep blue robes. "Better?"

Alice ran her hands over the fine, soft material, her mouth making a little 'o' in awe. Her fingers lingered on the waist area, where the robes cut off, leaving her slacks bare in front, but not in back. "Is this what I usually wear?"

"No, it's the American cut robe. You _are_ in America now."

"That explains the odd accent," Frank commented.

Afraid his sister might implode from the strain of holding her tongue (he'd listened to her complain numerous times about how often she heard remarks about her accent, and how annoying it had become), Lonny jumped in with, "Here, Frank, let me transfigure your clothes for you." So saying, he did just that as Aline cast a spell on Alice to arrange her hair into a semblance of something not obsolete.

Frank examined his trousers and shirt contemplatively, nodding. "So if I'm a wizard, can I do this as well?"

"Yes, you can—when you recall how," Alonzo said.

"Let him hold your wand and see what happens," Aline offered in a teasing manner, giving a smirk the likes of which only a Slytherin was capable…or one married to a Slytherin.

"I'm not giving him my wand!" Lonny exclaimed, right before understanding hit and he realized his sister was jerking his chain again. Slightly embarrassed, he coughed and said, "My sister runs a wand shop. Maybe Abby will give you a chance to use one. Come on, let's eat."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Inside _Conn__'__s__Wands_, Abigail studied the newcomers thoughtfully, and shook hands with each one as they were introduced. As was her habit, she automatically read Frank and Alice during the handshake, then she turned a worried, odd expression to her sister.

"Alice, Frank, why don't you come over here to this wall and see the pictures of what Salem used to look like. I need to speak with my brother and sister." She led them to a wall covered with old photographs of buildings, streets filled with wagons and people in ancient dress, some moving, some stationary, and left them there when she returned to her siblings, her face set in a mask of disbelief. "Is there something you should be telling me?"

"Yeah, about that," Aline hedged, shuffling her feet like a ten-year-old in front of the Headmaster. "Remember the story of the Longbottoms—Neville's parents? How they ended up in the insane ward of the hospital because of the torture?"

"Yes," answered Abigail warily.

Smiling sheepishly, Aline extended her hands weakly toward the Longbottoms. "Ta-da."

"Oh my God, Aline! You kidnapped them and brought them here?" Abby screeched, her voice rising in pitch all through the sentence to culminate in a shrill note. The couple in the corner twisted round to see what the commotion was about, then went back to examining the pictures.

"You make that sound like a bad thing," Aline responded sulkily.

"Did you know some of these photos move?" Frank asked, projecting his voice across the room, his finger resting on a particular square. "Is that normal?"

"Perfectly normal, I assure you," Abigail answered, her eyes boring into Aline. "As I was saying—"

"Abby, don't freak out," Lonny cut in. "We took them to—"

"And you helped her do it?" Abby yelped.

"Abby! Listen to me," he insisted, lowering his tone. "We wanted to cure them, since no one else could. The Medicine Man made a vast improvement. Frank was catatonic, and Alice was…well, bonkers."

The shop proprietor, her brows dipped in anger, her arms crossed over her chest, countered with, "Not to rain on your parade, little brother, but there's still one serious problem: they don't remember anything. _Anything_."

"We kind of figured that out," Aline said. "We hoped you could give us some advice."

"Okay, I will. Take them back _now_. I'm sure you're already in huge trouble with the law."

"We sneaked them out undercover," Aline replied, as if her sister ought to have assumed as much. Implied was the phrase, _We__'__re__not__stupid_. "The authorities probably don't know, or at least Severus hasn't sent any messages in that regard. Anyway, we didn't come to get lectured, we came to try to help them remember what it's like to be a witch and a wizard…with a wand."

"Over my dead body," Abby growled. She gestured covertly at the couple. "Until they can access their memories or prove they're capable, the answer is no."

"Come here, you," Alice said in a frustrated tone.

All three heads turned to gaze upon the Longbottoms, who at present were engaged in trying to talk to the tiny moving people on the wall. Failing to elicit a response, Alice repeatedly snapped at them with her fingers, pulling them away empty.

Aline had opened her mouth to protest to her sister's ultimatum; the couples' actions summarily shut her up. Alright, perhaps the Longbottoms weren't completely… sound …lucid…whatever, but they were a hundred times better. Then, as Abby's words sank in fully, she uttered, "Wait a minute. What do you mean 'access their memories'? Aren't they all gone?"

Abigail squinched up her face, peering at the other woman as if she were mentally deficient. "No. They're still in there, just all—the best way I can describe it is _hidden_."

"How can memories be hidden?" asked Lonny.

"I don't know." Abby shrugged. "All I know is that I sense them in there. How to get them out is another story. Which brings me back to my original idea—take them home and let the healers see what they can do!"

"Slight snag there, Abby," said Aline, shaking her head. "They no longer have a home. If we take them to the hospital, we could dump them off easily enough, but they'd blab about us. They don't retain much, yet what they do retain can be very harmful for us."

"You do have a knack for understatement, don't you?" grumbled Abby. "Slight snag?"

"If we could _obliviate_ them, it would solve everything, but we can't when their minds are already so messed up," added Lonny.

Abigail rounded on him, scolding. "I can't believe you let Aline talk you into this."

"Why not?" he grinned, which he knew aggravated her. "I'm the irresponsible one, or so you've always said."

Abigail rolled her eyes heavenward. "I should tell Mom and Dad, let them deal with you brats."

"Or," Aline interrupted, "You could help us find Neville. He's in the Amazon somewhere, and if he found out his parents were getting better, he'd be thrilled. He'd probably move them into his house, and he wouldn't let anyone press charges against us."

Abby hesitated, on the verge of saying no. Aline was right, Neville would be very happy with the progress, wouldn't he? From what she understood of the situation, Frank had been wholly unresponsive since the torture incident, and Alice had been almost as bad, had not remembered her son, nor been able to carry on a semi-coherent conversation. If Neville saw them now, surely he'd be too overjoyed to allow anyone to move against Aline or Alonzo, and he'd cooperate in doing whatever possible to hasten his parents' complete cure. And aside from herself and her father, she wasn't aware of anyone gifted enough to track a person via clairvoyance. If Aline could do so, she would have already. It wasn't an exact science, but she'd come somewhere in the ballpark, as the muggles said.

Sighing in resignation, to the relief of her siblings, Abigail nodded. "I need something belonging to Neville, something close to him."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Dolph arrived home after a long, tiresome day at work. What was it about people, wanting to have their dogs' fur clipped and trimmed—at any time, but especially in the dead of winter? How many had he done today? Seven…eight? That didn't even count helping Rab prepare for two surgeries, which fortunately Dr. Gissell had been there for, freeing Dolph to feed, water, and pet the animals in the cages, both in the morning and late afternoon.

He shut the front door and glanced around the house. The place was clean; in fact, the floors looked freshly scrubbed and polished. He'd need to congratulate the kid on that. Tim had been doing an exemplary job of keeping house once he learned how to do it, though his cooking skills were non-existent. Not surprising, considering he'd been a neglected boy, then captured and kept in the forest for years; probably hadn't had much experience with stoves and conventional food, unless one included raw meat as conventional fare.

Speaking of the kid, where was he? His pattern had been to greet Dolph when he came home, and the latter had come to expect and anticipate that. Even when he'd been married to Bella, she had never, even once, come to the door looking happy to see him. Although he'd be loath to admit it, he liked the feeling it gave him when Tim smiled and said how glad he was to have Dolph home. Except he called him Mr. Goodman, and Tim was lonely and needy so maybe it didn't mean all that much, but that was beside the point.

Dolph took off his cloak and hung it on the rack beside the door. He walked around the bottom floor of the house, peering into each room. No Tim. He called the name a few times, receiving no answer, and his stomach clenched. Was this how it had felt to muggles or traitors when they'd come home to find the Dark Mark over their homes, knowing that only death lay inside? He shook his head to clear it. How silly. The kid wasn't dead, he'd probably just run away…and that made Dolph feel awful all over again. Why would he run off? Was Dolph working him too hard? He wasn't a house elf, after all.

He took the stairs two at a time, and paused on the top landing. There were three rooms up here: his study, a guest room packed with assorted junk and therefore unusable, and Rab's old room. The larger master bedroom downstairs he'd secured for himself when the brothers had first moved in. His feet led him to the far end of the hall, where the door lay open, and he took a steadying breath before going in.

The bed was made, everything in order…and then he moved round the bed to see his dog curled up in the corner of the room, Tim lying beside him, back to back, asleep. A strange sense of relief washed over him, followed by annoyance that he'd been worried for nothing—over a muggle! What was happening to him?

"Get up!" he ordered, prodding the boy in the side with his boot. Tim's eyes shot open and he rolled over, staring upward at the intruder. "You're not an animal, get off the floor," Dolph commanded again.

Tim hastily obeyed, getting to his feet as he mumbled, "I was tired after cleaning the floors. We always slept on the ground with Greyback, and even after…" After he'd left them to fend for themselves, when he'd gone to fight for Voldemort and subsequently gotten himself tossed into Azkaban.

Dolph studied him briefly. "Are you telling me you've slept on the floor ever since you arrived here?"

"Yes, sir. I'm used to it."

"Well get un-used to it," Dolph snipped. He could hear Rabby howling now about how cruel Dolph had been to make the boy stay on the floor, as if it had been his decision. "You'll sleep in the bed like a normal person." His glance shot about the room and landed on the nightstand where a short stack of books lay where he'd set them days ago. Unless he was mistaken, they appeared untouched. "Have you been studying like I told you?"

If Tim could have taken a step backward, he'd have done so. He shook his head while staring at his feet. "No, sir."

"Why not?"

Pause, then an ashamed mumble, "I can't read…not really. Just a couple words here and there."

Dolph swore under his breath. What had he expected? The boy was eight when he'd joined Greyback, and likely hadn't had much schooling to speak of before that, knowing his background. He let out a sigh that sounded somehow condescending. He may as well resign himself to the facts: if he was going to keep Tim (and for some bizarre, inexplicable reason he wanted to), he was going to have to treat him like a son not only to avoid suspicion from outside quarters, but to make sure he didn't grow up as a total dolt. That meant he'd need to send him to school, where he'd be behind the rest and probably picked on for being stupid…or he'd need to hire a tutor. Purebloods in Britain, as a rule, hired people to teach their children before they went off to Hogwarts. The main question then—muggle or magical instructor? A magical tutor would wonder why Tim wasn't in Hogwarts at the age of twelve, and he'd think the kid a squib. That could actually work. Dolph wouldn't have to acknowledge the boy as a muggle at all, he could pass him off as a squib!

At last he looked down at the boy and said in a not-unfriendly tone, "I'll hire you a teacher."

"I can't ask you to spend your money on me like that," began Tim.

Dolph delivered a withering expression. He couldn't ask Dolph to hire a tutor, but he could show up at his door and ask to be taken in? "I can well afford it. And you are going to learn, whether you like it or not. Oh, and from now on you're going to be known as Timothy." It was his full name, after all, and sounded more refined.

"Yes, sir."

Dolph came in close to examine the boy's ears, hair, and exposed skin, to sniff gingerly around him. He appeared clean, so that was good. He'd taken the hygiene talks to heart. "I never was much good at cooking. Marshal and Nott are coming over to start giving you cooking lessons, so get downstairs. I'm hungry."

Tim scampered past him, raced down the hall, and pounded down the stairs. Dolph followed him at a leisurely pace, reflecting on the past few minutes. This playing-daddy was more complicated than he thought it would be. And yet…he kind of liked it. He felt needed in a way no one had ever needed him. Not entirely dreadful at all.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Timothy stirred the pot of beans as directed and set the cover lightly back down, avoiding the steam that made him want to drop it on the stove. The meal was coming along nicely, Mr. Goodman would be proud of him.

"What did I just tell you about grilling the meat? Do you want them burnt black?" Marshal snapped, pushing Tim out of the way and turning the steaks over himself.

"You said to turn them when they're done," Tim answered in confusion. Was it his fault the wizard hadn't specified what 'done' entailed?

Nott gestured for the boy to come over to the counter where he was, and considering Marshal had a large, pointed fork and a sour expression, it seemed the prudent thing to do. The man handed him a head of lettuce to tear into pieces, and Tim watched as Nott chopped a carrot rapidly, cringing as the knife neared the man's fingers, yet came away unbloodied.

"I want you to try it. Hold the carrot like this, and the knife like this—no, curl your fingers under so you won't get cut. Yes, like that." Nott stood over the lad, supervising without comment, and from the way Timothy relaxed, he could tell it was what the kid needed. It was slow going, but that was alright, there was no dire emergency. To Marshal, he aimed a barbed remark, "Good thing you don't have kids. You'd kill 'em first time they messed up."

"They'd do things right, so I wouldn't have to kill 'em," Marshal shot back, letting slip a grin. He wasn't mad at the brat, he just…he wasn't used to rugrats, and even though he'd offered to help teach Tim to cook, he wasn't really sure how to do that. He wasn't a teacher, after all, he was a butcher; he cut up meat for a living now. "I'm not cross with you, Timothy. I don't like burnt steak is all."

"I'm trying," Tim answered. It was his first day of lessons, he shouldn't be expected to do everything perfectly. Yet he also didn't want to sound ungrateful, especially if Mr. Goodman happened to walk in and hear him being a smart mouth. "I'll do better."

"It takes time, it doesn't come all at once," Nott answered.

He walked past Marshal, elbowing him sharply in the side as he did so. Why it bothered him for Marshal to be mean to the boy, he wasn't sure. Frankly, he was astounded at how well behaved and quick this kid was, being a muggle and all. He'd been taught they were on the level of animals, yet Timothy seemed as bright as any of his own children…nearly as bright, he amended his contemplation. But then, hadn't so much of what he'd believed in the past been proven false? Voldemort wasn't even pureblood, nor was Dumbledore, yet they'd been the most powerful wizards in the world. Most probably, the way he'd been indoctrinated concerning muggles wasn't entirely accurate, either. And Malfoy, one of the staunchest anti-muggle supremacists he'd ever known, had welcomed one into his home and fought to keep him. Yes, this whole situation was going to take a lot of mulling over.

"Do that again and lose the elbow," Marshal growled as he sank the huge fork into one slab of meat and removed it from the grill.

Nott merely gave a disdainful expression and kept walking. "Dolph!" he called down the hall. "Supper's about ready."

The dog Goodman had adopted loped in, tongue lolling, and planted itself in the kitchen door as if demanding ransom in food to pass. Timothy reached down to pet him, to which Marshal barked that one doesn't soil one's hands playing with animals while cooking, and ordered him to wash up again.

"What're you bitching about?" Dolph said as he lazily entered the dining area.

"Nothing," Marshal grumbled. He set down the platter of steaks. "I'm not sure I'm the one who ought to be teachin' the kid."

"Why not?" asked Dolph. To Nott, the way Dolph cocked his head and crossed his arms made it look like he was waiting for Marshal to admit he didn't want to be near the muggle any more than he had to be. "Did he do what you told him?"

"Yeah, sort of. He almost let them burn, though."

Tim resisted the temptation to butt in, asserting his lack of knowledge, not willful action. It wasn't necessary. Dolph shrugged, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "So don't teach him, then. What about you, Nott? You backing out like a pussy, too?"

"No, I'm fine with Timothy," Nott replied, smirking at the dig Dolph had delivered at Marshal. It hit its mark, leaving the man red faced.

"I'm not a pussy!" Marshal shouted, his glare landing on the lad hunched next to the counter, hugging the dog and looking terrified. "I told you to stop playing with that f—king dog! It's dirty!"

"My dog isn't dirty, Marshal," Dolph said in a low, even tone that brooked no discussion.

Nott noted in the older wizard's dark eyes the same thing Marshal undoubtedly saw—a thinly veiled warning. They'd learned many years ago not to piss a Lestrange off too badly, lest someone end up very sorry, and if Marshal had a bit of sense he'd proceed with caution now. Man to man, in unarmed combat, they may be evenly matched; in a duel, Dolph had a distinct advantage in intelligence and repertoire of spells.

Dolph continued without waiting for or expecting a response. "And Timothy is a member of my household now. Don't forget that." Then he turned to the boy and said, "Come on over here and set the table. Thank you, gentlemen, for cooking. Everything looks and smells delicious."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Charlotte, seated on a high stool at a pristine lab table, in a room full of lab tables and funky smells and creepy animals floating in jars lined up and down the room, shuddered. It was cold in there as well. She picked up the cloak she'd been given and threw it round her shoulders. She had to admit that the chill in the air wasn't the only thing making her shiver. This place frightened her, and she'd been left alone, save her brother, who sat opposite her looking every bit as worried. What if that black-haired wizard meant to do something awful to them? Who would know? Well, Harry and Sirius would—they'd consented to have the children brought here for testing. What if they were in on it? What if—

"Here we are." Snape entered the room carrying an armful of various herbs and other potion ingredients, some of which were so rare and valuable as to necessitate locking them away in his secret cupboard. "I've decided the best approach at his time is to test you for allergies to any of the ingredients, Charlotte."

"Why is Henry here?" she asked, her voice quivering.

"I told Harry I'd run away and follow you," Henry piped up, smiling. "I didn't want you going away."

"I'm not leaving you," Charlotte crooned as she reached over the table to pat her brother's head. "I'd never leave you unless we both agreed it was the right thing to do…like when the full moon comes, and I can't be in there with you."

Henry nodded and looked over at the wizard. "You're not gonna make her sick again, are you?"

"No," Severus answered curtly. "It's a very basic examination of probable causes into the failure…" He stopped, realizing the boy hadn't a clue what he was talking about. "We're just going to see if something in the Wolfsbane bothers her."

So saying, with his hand gloved he snapped off a twig of aconite. Addressing the girl he explained, "This is an important ingredient, despite the fact that only a tiny portion is used due to its toxicity. It enhances penetration of the Wolfsbane into the very cells of your body."

"If it's poison, why use it?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"It enhances penetration into the cells of your body. It is possible to detoxify it, but it then loses its value in this potion."

"Do you think that's what happened, that it poisoned me?" she proposed.

Snape shook his head. He only brought it out because it was one of the ingredients, not because he suspected it as a cause. The girl hadn't gone paralyzed, nor lost sensation of touch, nor had she appeared to suffer from a slowed pulse and lowered blood pressure, which would have necessarily induced a lessening of activity, not a heightening of it. There'd been no vomiting or gastrointestinal distress until she'd returned to human form, and obviously she hadn't died from arrhythmia or any other heart malfunction. Even had this been the culprit, Snape would have to work on a mixture incorporating activated charcoal to counter the effect, a variation of formula which he highly doubted would work.

"No," he said finally. "I was planning to brew a batch later, maybe have you drink it so I could observe the results."

"I'm not a bloody lab rat!" Charlotte shot back.

Severus chose to ignore that. Perhaps he ought to set her at ease. He withdrew a withered flower bunch from a lilac tree from among his pile of ingredients. It had begun to turn crisp, exactly the perfect point in time for its use. He unconsciously brought it to his nose to smell, something so familiar, so sweet, and he extended it to the girl. "This is my favourite of all the flowers for its haunting aroma. In a laboratory we get many foul smelling elements, yet few so sweet."

She sniffed it cautiously, wondering what he meant by it. And then she began to sneeze. A bout of no less than ten sneezes in a row echoed round the room, with Henry covering his ears, before Charlotte ceased, panting and gasping, her eyes watering and nose running. "What did you do to that?"

"Nothing," answered Severus, a smile overtaking his lips. He almost laughed, but caught himself in time. It couldn't be! Was it this simple? Was Charlotte allergic to lilacs? He conjured a handkerchief and handed it to her. "Charlotte, have you ever noticed a reaction like this when you came into contact with certain plants?"

"No…yes. When we lived with our parents, my mum used to keep flowers out of the house. She said they were bad for me." Charlotte gave him a sidelong glance. "When we lived in the woods, I never noticed it."

"These don't grow wild in the area where you lived with Greyback," Severus said, elation thumping in his chest. "It seems pretty definitive you're allergic to them, which also means in the Wolfsbane it is possible they would adversely affect you, particularly when you're in werewolf form and liable to unusual reactions."

Charlotte poked at the flower lying on the table. "So all the terrible things I did were because of _this_?"

"I can't say that for certain," Snape answered. Never commit unless one is certain. "I would still like to test a variety of other ingredients, and—"

Charlotte cut him off. "If this is the reason, can you make the potion different for me?"

"No. I can attempt adaptations, but their efficacy won't be known until you try them and we observe you under their influence." He paused. She deserved the full truth. "It is unlikely a variation will suffice. Centuries went into creating this potion."

"So what's the point?" she exclaimed. "If you can't fix it, what does it matter why it happened? I won't take Wolfsbane again, so why does it bloody matter?" She got up and motioned for Henry to do the same. "I think I'd be better off going back to the forest. Ginny and Harry argue over us all the time, and I'm dangerous."

As much as it pained Severus to choke out the words, he managed to say, "Black can get you through it."

Charlotte stopped on her way to the door, though she had no idea how she was to find her way out of this place. She turned back to him, still clinging to Henry's hand. "What do you mean?"

"His old chum was a werewolf. For years Black spent the full moons with him, without benefit of Wolfsbane. You don't need to be alone."

"And his friend didn't hurt him?" she inquired, edging back to the table.

_Sadly,__ no_. "No. He will be able to assist you." _Please __stop__ talking __about__ that__ prat_.

"Mr. Snape?" asked Henry, and he waited for the man to look his way. "Is it true the Malfoys are giving Marcus away?"

Flames of wrath shot through Severus' eyes. That would be the way Sirius Black would define what had happened, wasn't it? "Lucius and Narcissa love Marcus and are heartbroken that the Ministry is taking him away from them. He's been adopted by a couple in Bulgaria, where no one will know he is a werewolf."

"Isn't there a way to stop it?" said Charlotte.

"I wish there was. Mr. Malfoy has explored every venue, he's spent a great deal of money trying to keep Marcus."

"Will we ever see him again?" asked Henry.

"I think so," Severus answered, nodding thoughtfully. He knew Dimitar Tanassov, and he knew Luna Lovegood; both were good people who'd do their best to make the boy happy. "I believe you will."


	72. There and Back Again

.The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 72 (There and Back Again)

**February 21, 2001**

"Sss…eee…see. Ss…aaaa…lll…yyy—Sally. Rrr….uuu…nnnn. Rrrun. See Sally run."

With a disgusted sigh, Tim closed the beginner book he'd been studying for the last hour, long after his tutor had left. His head hurt from the effort. For three days he'd been mentally poked and prodded by the old man Mr. Goodman had hired, been tested and retested on every subject Tim's young mind could envision, and invariably come up short. He was an idiot, there was no way around it. Everyone his age could read! He bet all those kids who scurried round the neighborhood from time to time could read and do mathematics and…whatever other stuff there was to learn.

Tempted to throw the book across the room, Tim instead placed it gently on the nightstand and lay down on the bed. Sure, the teacher didn't call him stupid, and even tried to assure him he wasn't, but what else could it be? No doubt Mr. Ulysses would quit after another week of listening to this pitiful pupil stutter out words. Not even _words_—in all this time, three days, he'd only learned the sounds of the letters! Today, an hour ago, he'd begun studying on his own to utilize what he'd learned, and this was the best he could do? _Look __at __the __ball.__ See__ Sally__ run.__ See__ Tim__ try__ to__ read__ like __a__ moron__…_alright, he'd made that last one up. If he were Mr. Ulysses, he'd expect much more from a student.

"Timothy, are you coming?" Dolph poked his head in the open door to observe the boy on the bed. "You sick?"

"I'm okay." Tim sat up, got off the bed, and smoothed it down to look nice. "I'm just tired from…" Reading? Seriously? He was going to say that?

To his dismay, Dolph nodded sagely. "Yeah, schoolwork is hard. I never applied myself any more than I had to in order to get decent marks." He delivered a semi-stern frown. "But I want you to do better than that."

"I'm trying," Tim mumbled. It seemed he spent a lot of time either trying to do stuff, or telling people he was trying.

He trailed after the man down the hall, down the stairs, and right to the front door, where he paused to slip on the warm coat Mr. Malfoy had bought for him. He liked going outside in the fresh air, even though it was cold. Sometimes he wandered the neighborhood when Mr. Goodman was at work; he liked watching people do what they did, just for the fun of it. He sometimes felt trapped in the house, it being so…closed in. The wizard and lad walked along in silence, their breath puffing out in white wisps from their mouths, their shoes crunching on the slushy snow of the sidewalk.

Dolph was saying something as they approached the neighbor store. In times past, he wouldn't have been caught dead in a muggle market, but there being no great wizarding population in Bradford, and therefore no special city section nearby, he made do. This market stocked most of what he liked to eat, and had some muggle commodities he'd come to enjoy as well, like their soda pop. "I've decided you're not going to cook anymore."

Tim stopped in place, his jaw dropping along with his heart. He'd let Mr. Goodman down! "Am I that bad? I'll do better."

"It's not that. You've got more pressing things now, like learning. You've got to catch up." He hadn't even paused in his stride, making Tim run to literally catch up. "I've hired a witch to cook for us. She'll begin tomorrow. I still expect you to keep the house tidy."

"Yes, sir." Tim went into the store ahead of him and stared at the vastness of it. So much food, he'd have given an arm for this only a few months ago.

He marched up the first aisle, his hand slinked out quickly, grabbed an apple, and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat without so much as a break in his gait. Dolph picked up a basket at the door and turned round to follow him. Together they canvassed each aisle, and every so often Tim snagged another item to add to the stash growing in his coat and trouser pockets. The boy had just stuffed a Slim Jim down the front of his coat when he felt someone grasp his arm and jerk him roughly round to deliver a whack on his bum so hard his heels raised up off the floor and he yelped loudly.

In a low, threatening voice, Dolph growled, "Put it back. Now."

Trembling, Tim removed the meat stick from his coat and slipped it back on the rack.

"Is that all you took?" asked the wizard, still in that tone that chilled the boy's heart.

Shaking his head, Tim began to empty his pockets, stunned by the expression of consternation on Mr. Goodman's face as the food appeared from various areas of his garb. When he'd emptied his pockets of all pilfered items, leaving them set in a jumbled pile on an empty spot on the shelf, Dolph pointed to the glass doors on the front of the store. "Go wait over there for me."

Tim did as he was ordered, squatting against the wall, feeling the chilly draft each time the door opened. He bit down on a fingernail, a bad habit he had when he was nervous. Mr. Goodman was cross with him, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Not that he'd have asked at the moment, not with the angry expression on the wizard's face. He waited patiently till Dolph had made his purchases and had come to collect him at the door. It wasn't till they were outside, free from prying ears and eyes, that Dolph handed him one of the sacks to carry, then finally spoke.

"The next time you steal something, I'll use the belt on you."

Tim gulped loudly. "But…but that's how we got food after Greyback left us…before you…"

"I feed you enough, don't I?" asked the man, cocking his head as if daring him to deny it. Tim nodded, the notion of denying it never crossing his mind. He couldn't remember a time he'd ever eaten so well or so often. Dolph continued, "Then you don't need to steal. You make me look like a miser as well as a terrible parent, not to mention I'd prefer not to risk involvement with muggle security officers."

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't ever get you in trouble on purpose," Tim murmured as he tagged along slightly behind the man. "What did you mean when you said 'parent'?"

Dolph shrugged as he strode on. "I'm sure everyone assumes I'm your father, and I won't have them believing I'm a lousy father."

"Oh." Tim shifted the bag he was carrying to the other hand. For some godforsaken reason he'd thought it meant something; he ought to know better, right? Hadn't life to this point taught him that? "I can carry the other bag if you want."

Dolph looked down at the skinny lad shuffling along beside him and a mixture of a smirk and a sneer crossed his face. He was a good kid, despite the incident in the store. Mr. Ulysses had even told him that he'd rarely seen a child learn as quickly as Timothy, which for some unknown reason made Dolph proud. Of course, he had told the old tutor that Tim's mother—may she rest in peace—had raised him on the African plains, which was why he'd received no education to date. He certainly couldn't let the gentleman assume _he_, the boy's ostensible father, was somehow at fault.

"We're almost there," said Dolph.

Tim hesitated, his brow furrowing. Hadn't he been told only a short while ago that he wasn't to cook? "Who's going to fix supper?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? We're going to my brother's house. Rab wants to get to know you better," Dolph explained.

He unlocked the house door with his wand and the two entered. In the dim light of the foyer, the boy exhibited that same air of a young Rabby that Dolph had noticed the first time the kid had come here. Without thinking, he ruffled the boy's hair with his free hand, then walked into the kitchen, leaving Tim gawping in the foyer.

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"I hope this isn't an inconvenient time," Aline began, noting the table set for four. Being that Jorab and Livonia lived alone, it could only mean they were having company.

"No, it's fine," Liv said, motioning her in out of the cold. "Dolph and Timothy are coming for supper. What's up?"

Good question, one with no answer resembling anything simple. "It's about the Longbottoms. If I could talk to Jorab for a few minutes, then I'll get out of your hair."

Jorab, who'd strolled over to see who had shown up, registered a brief look of horror, right before casting an apprehensive glance at his wife. He'd overheard why Aline was here, and he wasn't jumping up and down with glee, not when Liv had no idea who he'd been in the past or the part he'd played in the couple's disability. She knew nothing of his Death Eater days and he fully intended to keep it that way. "The Longbottoms, you say," he crooned, taking Aline's arm to lead her into the nearby living room. "What may this have to do with me?"

Aline could have kicked herself. She'd naturally presumed he'd told Livonia he'd hired her to help cure the pair—she held no illusions that he'd unmasked himself as Rabastan Lestrange. Then again, what motivation could he possibly have for hiring her if he'd had nothing to do with their situation? Thinking on her feet, she said, "Severus told me you'd been a Death Eater. Did you know Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Rab cast another glance at his wife, who'd accompanied them to the living room. "Yes, we were acquainted. Bat shit crazy witch if ever one existed."

"Agreed," Aline nodded. "I don't want to take your time, I only wondered if I could pump you for information, anything that might help me figure out what spells she used on the Longbottoms."

"They've disappeared from St. Mungo's," Liv piped up, oblivious to the sidelong glances flying about. "Didn't you know?"

"Oh, yes. I heard." Aline paused, slightly discombobulated. She really should have met Rab at his clinic, it would have been easier. "Maybe they wandered off. When they get back, I want to continue trying to treat them."

Liv shrugged good naturedly. "It's very sweet of you to care. All these years those poor people have been languishing in that hospital, with no one doing anything to help them…not after the initial period, I mean." She gestured in the direction of the kitchen. "I need to check my roast. It's good seeing you, Aline."

"You, too, Livonia." She waited till the woman had gone, whipped out her wand and threw out a silencing charm, then turned to Jorab. "I'm so sorry. I forgot she doesn't know."

Lips pinched into a line, he merely said, "What are you here for? I've told you everything already."

"We took them to a Medicine Man in America, and he healed their brains. They can walk and think and talk now." A look of sheer joy and excitement transfigured Jorab from the sullen man he'd been two seconds earlier. Still, she had to give the bad news, too. "However, their memories are gone. Completely gone. I don't understand it, because the book I consulted, the one that sent me to White Elk, said his people were able to fully cure others. So my question is this: are you positive there weren't any other curses used? Or more specifically, memory charms, like to make sure the Longbottoms didn't remember any of you?"

Rabby, who kept shooting glimpses at the doorway, turned his attention to her as he said in a clipped tone, "No. I told you everything. Do you think I'm lying? Why would I…" He trailed off, his eyes suddenly staring into space as if remembering something. His mouth formed a little 'o' and his eyes grew round and wide to match. In a hushed voice he said, "I never thought anything of it till right now, but Barty didn't come out of the house with us. We waited outside for him, with Bella bitching that he'd better hurry his arse up."

"Do you think it's plausible he did something to them, like _obliviate_? Or worse?" she asked, using a similar hushed tone. There were far worse memory charms than the one she'd mentioned, as evidenced by Gilderoy Lockhart's failed attempt to curse Ron Weasley. In fact, Bayly had—under Lucius' tutelage—used _obliterate_ on the men who had drugged Gloria shortly after his wedding. She knew for a fact that this curse eliminated _all_ memories. Bellatrix likely could have performed such a spell easily; whether a teenager like Barty Crouch would have been competent enough to use the complicated spell by himself remained a mystery.

"I wouldn't put it past him to try 'finishing the job'," Jorab responded. "He was a total bootlicker to the dark lord and to Bella."

Aline grimaced. With the Longbottoms' minds already ripped to shreds by Bellatrix's curses, any memory charm might have ricocheted around in there, further devastating everything it touched. Even had it been a mere _obliviate_, nothing done now could undo it. That spell had to be reversed within a day to be effective. Her whole body slumped. "Thank you, this has been very helpful." _Now__ I__ know __it__ doesn__'__t__ matter__ what__ I__ try, __nothing __will __ever__ work._ She turned to leave.

He stopped her with a light hand on her shoulder. "Aline, thank you so much for everything. Please don't be discouraged. Nobody ever thought the Longbottoms could get this far, and look what you've done."

She looked up at him. An attempt at a smile failed miserably. She cupped her face in her hands, and slowly ran them down until her fingertips only touched her chin. "I kidnapped two people and took them to another country. I can't even bring them back without first finding their son and asking his assistance so I don't end up in prison or on the run. And now it seems I won't be able to restore them after all. Memory charm damage is…I don't have a clue how to proceed from here."

"I wish I knew what to do," he replied glumly.

She shrugged, struggling not to cry. Everything had been going so well, and there was still some small hope in finding Neville and enlisting him on her side. "Well, I'd better go, you're having company. I'll talk to you when I find out anything." She headed for the door, shouted a goodbye to Liv, and dashed onto the porch to disapparate. Had she known Dolph appeared only a few seconds later, she'd have been grateful for one thing—having missed him. She really wasn't in the mood to dodge his amorous gazes.

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Regulus walked out the fireplace in Severus' office as if he owned the place, flicking soot off himself and looking round at the portraits on the walls, who stared back at him in a manner none too friendly—including his great-grandfather, who greeted him with, "Regulus Black, what are you up to?"

"What makes you think I'm up to anything, grandfather?" he retorted, grinning.

"You've come here unannounced, when the Headmaster isn't here. What am I supposed to think?" responded Phineas Nigellus Black. "And what happened to your hair?"

Reg automatically reached up to smooth a hand over his locks. It seemed alright, though he did manage to brush some more soot onto the floor. "What do you mean?"

"It's short!" howled the old man, the implication in his voice making it sound like a criminal offense.

"Oh, that. You haven't seen me in a while. I cut it." While the notion of his ancestor going into apoplectic shock after death amused him, Reg hurried to add, "I like it this way."

"Disgraceful," muttered Phineas, shaking his head. "Youngsters nowadays have no respect for the old ways."

"Lots of older wizards had short hair, too—like Abraxas Malfoy," Regulus countered. "And even though Lucius has _long_ hair, you disapprove of him." Why was he bothering to argue? He couldn't win, nothing he said was going to change his grandfather's opinions or bad temperament. "And getting to your first point, Snape is expecting me…which begs the question of where the heck he is."

"I'm standing right behind you."

Regulus jumped a foot and spun to face Snape, his heart racing in his chest. "Would you stop sneaking about like a cat?"

Severus lifted his lips in a tiny sneer. It wasn't really worthy of a full blown effort. In one hand he carried a trowel from the garden—or more accurately, the Herbology lab. Bits of dried earth caked the tip and graduated down the length of the blade. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Is it Neville's?" asked Regulus.

Severus sighed like a martyr. "No, it belongs to the Runes instructor. Although it was purchased brand new last semester, she's hoping to find some archeological markings indicative of an ancient civilization," he answered dryly. Honestly, was there anyone who trusted him to accomplish a simple task without cross examining him for accuracy? Then again, in their place he'd likely do the same, but that was different; he wasn't inept.

The younger wizard took the trowel from him and held it up to the light to examine it. What he was searching for, Snape couldn't say, unless he'd actually believed the bit about the markings. "Thanks, Sev."

"I hope it helps," he answered, sincerely this time. Then he froze. Why had Aline sent Reg to fetch the trowel? Was she planning to take it from Regulus and head back to America without him, and was avoiding her husband lest he get wind of her devious plot? Oh, hell no, she wasn't! Better clarify that right now! "Regulus, are you going to see Aline now?"

Reg broke his gaze from the obviously fascinating object. "No, why? I thought she was at home with the kids, waiting for you."

Severus shrugged in a manner that, in a less tense person, might be vaguely construed as an attempt at nonchalance. "No reason. Just verifying that our plan is still in effect."

"As far as I know it is. I'm headed there now," Reg answered with a wink.

"Well…good." Because no way in freaking hell was his wife going to traipse through the jungles of the Amazon. And if the one they sent were to get lost and no one ever saw hide nor hair of him again, it would be no great loss to humanity. "Send him my best," he said, his sneer ratcheting to full strength.

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_Knock,__knock,__knock_. Regulus paused, considering. Why did he even bother to knock? It was his house, too! Okay, technically it wasn't anymore, not since Sirius had given it to Harry, but he still felt strange pounding on the door of the home he'd grown up in.

"Good Master Regulus!" Kreacher squealed, which Reg found slightly disconcerting. Enthusiasm was one thing, squealing in a male elf of his age…not particularly attractive. Kreacher latched onto the human's leg and dragged him into the house. "Good Master Regulus, you've come for supper?"

"Okay, sure." Why not? He hadn't eaten yet, and it would save Kreacher the trouble of bringing the food to Spinner's End and cleaning up there as well. "Is Sirius here?"

Kreacher's mood changed like switching off a light. His barely visible brows dipped over his bulbous eyes. "Evil Master Sirius is upstairs, probably doing something nefarious."

"Then you'll have to stop him," Reg said, patting the old elf's head. "Tell him to come meet me in the kitchen." So saying, he drifted off to find something to snack on before the meal. Kreacher usually brought loads of things to eat to Spinner's End, so he naturally assumed there had to be snacks lying about here. Then again, Sirius was here—but so was Harry. Tough call.

He'd found a stash of homemade donuts hidden in a sliding panel behind the ice chest, and had sat down with a glass of cold milk when Sirius came waltzing in, looking none too pleased.

"Did you sick that insane elf on me?" he demanded.

"Yeah," Regulus admitted, motioning for his brother to sit. Sirius pulled up a chair and reached for one of the donuts, his irritation forgotten. Where had Reg found these? He'd looked everywhere! Reg continued, "I've got a proposition for you."

Sirius shoved half a donut into his mouth, letting the heavenly sweetness melt on his tongue. Kreacher sure did know how to cook. He chewed and swallowed before commenting drolly, "I'm not marrying you."

"Ha. Hilarious." Reg finished his second pastry before leaning on the table toward his brother, a glimmer of excitement in his eye. "The offer I am about to make would involve using all the skills you've learned so far in auror training."

"I'm listening."

"I want you to find someone for me." Reg leaned back into his chair, gauging his brother's reaction.

"You mean like a wife? 'Cause that might be tricky nowadays, with the way women expect to choose their own husbands and all. Not that you aren't a great catch, I guess, but—I'm not really into matchmaking. That's more Cissy's domain—"

"Would you be serious for a minute!" Reg growled.

"I'm Sirius all the time," replied his brother, smirking in that infuriating way he had.

Reg resisted a strong impulse to slap the smirk off his face. It wasn't exactly the way to get Sirius on his side, and he'd probably end up losing the ensuing fight anyway. And even if he won, he'd have lost his…for want of a better word, courier. "Before I tell you anything more, I need your wizard's oath that you won't reveal to anyone what I'm about to tell you."

It worked. Curiosity piqued, Sirius bent forward and said in a bare whisper, "My wizard's oath? That's solemn business, Reg." No witch or wizard who valued their honour would break it, especially since doing so usually resulted in prolonged, potent sickness.

"Indeed it is." Reg held out his hand and waited.

Sirius hesitated. This was his brother, he could trust him not to set him up. He grasped Reg's hand as he said, "You have my oath. I will not reveal what you tell me to anyone unless you say it is alright to do so." A shimmer of blue mist rose up from between their clasped palms, circled their hands, then dispersed into the air. "Now tell me."

"I want you to find Neville Longbottom." He took the trowel from a pocket of his robe and laid it on the table. "If you take this to Abigail Conn in Salem, she can use it to determine approximately where he is, making the search easier."

"Abigail Conn? Isn't that Aline Conn—Aline Snape's—sister?" interjected Sirius.

"Yes." It was Reg's turn to hesitate. How much should he tell his brother? With Sirius' wizard's oath in play, it wasn't likely he'd be tempted to blab anything to the wrong people, but still…Snape was very protective of his privacy, particularly where the possibility of going to prison existed. And Sirius and Snape were like oil and water…or more like oil and flame. No, best not to get Severus involved in this. "Aline isn't able to harness that much clairvoyant power, so she recommended her sister. She can help narrow down the search grid considerably."

"One question," said Sirius, raising his hand as if he were in school. "Why do you want to find Neville? I imagine the Ministry sent aurors looking for him to tell him his parents have disappeared." He sucked in a gasp, gobsmacked. "Oh, shit! Did you have anything to do with that?"

"No, but thanks for the vote of confidence. And I doubt the Ministry would waste resources on trying to find two escaped mental patients who aren't a danger to anyone."

"You didn't answer my first question," Sirius pressed on. "Why do you want to find him?"

"Remember you're under oath," Regulus said. He waited for his brother to nod. "I know where his parents are, and I think he'd like to know as well."

The expression on Sirius' face was delightful, and Reg would have snapped a picture if he'd had a camera on hand. The utter shock gave way to confusion, followed by denial, and finally to cynicism. "Is this a joke?"

Reg rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. "No. I could have hired a headhunter, you know, but I thought—you being their friend and all—you'd want to be the one to bring the good news to their son."

"What good news?" Sirius exploded. "They're missing!"

"Did I not just say I know where they are?" Regulus snapped. "I also know that whoever took them did something to heal them, and they're beginning to recover. Frank isn't catatonic anymore, and neither of them is crazy."

"So where are they? Why not bring them home?" Sirius asked.

Pause. It had taken some explanation on Aline's part for Reg to understand this himself. Although he was certain Aline hadn't lied to him, he wasn't sure she'd been totally upfront with him, either, since she only admitted that the Longbottoms were living in a borrowed house on tribal lands in the United States, where the Ministry had no jurisdiction. In the scheme of things it made perfect sense to bring Neville to the clairvoyant and let her take the next step. If they brought the Longbottoms home in their present condition, they'd likely open up all kinds of nasty repercussions against Severus and Aline when their part was discovered.

"The healing isn't complete. They…they don't remember anything at all from their past. The persons who took them are afraid. You understand that they only had the best intentions, but that wouldn't stop people from trying to indict them."

"And that is where Neville comes in," said Sirius, beginning to get the picture. "Once he sees his parents lucid, he's unlikely to raise charges against whoever abducted them. Are you sure it wasn't you?"

"I said it wasn't!"

"Just checking." Sirius took a swig from his brother's glass of milk. Apparently Reg—if indeed he was innocent as he claimed—knew who had snatched the Longbottoms, but chose not to reveal that information. That would make him, at the very least, an accessory to the crime (if it could be called that) and Sirius certainly didn't intend to get his dumb little brother in trouble when his heart was in the right place.

Sirius picked up the trowel from the table, gazing at it in much the way Regulus had earlier. He nodded to himself and said, "Okay, I'll do it. How do I find this Abigail Conn?"

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**February 22, 2001**

Marshal finished rinsing the blood from his extensive knife collection, humming a tune as he wiped down each blade carefully before replacing it in the proper slot of his carrying case. He'd only used three of the weapons, though blood did tend to splatter, and if there was one thing he'd learned in life, it was to keep his weapons rust free and in pristine condition. He folded the leather case closed and slipped it into a large front pocket of his robes. He'd changed back into proper attire after finishing the job, as silly muggle clothing was no longer necessary.

He paused in front of the sink, which contained more than a few reddish spots. He could waste time cleaning it, but why bother? He was leaving the body right there in the open, in the living area in the front of the flat; even muggle law enforcement officers had to be bright enough to deduce the killer had taken the murder weapons with him, and it stood to reason he'd have washed them—and himself—first. Since he needn't worry about fingerprints, or anyone having seen him in his true appearance, there was nothing holding him back. Oh, wait, yes there was.

He slipped a long, devilishly sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and held it up for scrutiny. If he was any judge of weapons, and obviously he was, he'd guess this was the blade that had caused all the trouble to begin with. He picked his way across the debris strewn room (not his own doing, he'd be quick to point out, as lowlife muggle scum loved to live in filth) to where the hideously mutilated corpse lay face down on the rug. A huge ring of crimson underneath had spread far out in all directions. Marshal hitched his boot under the muggle's abdomen and flipped him over with one rapid, precise movement. The man's head lolled to the side, his eyes open, his mouth set in the final scream before he had expired.

"Doesn't feel so nice when it happens to you, does it?" he asked rhetorically.

As always, he'd utilized Veritaserum to make sure the criminal was guilty of the kidnapping and torture/murder of several girls over the course of three years. He hadn't waited for muggle authorities to arrest the filth, as their snail-like investigative progress may have resulted in more innocent deaths, and that just wasn't right.

He lifted the knife he'd taken from the kitchen drawer, squatted beside the dead man, and meticulously carved an ampersand in the fellow's forehead—the mark the muggle had used on all of his victims. It seemed fitting, after all. When he'd done, he plunged the knife into the muggle's throat, anchoring him to the spot, and disapparated.

Later that day, he turned up on Dolph's doorstep. Sure, Goodman had told him he wasn't needed anymore to teach the kid to cook, but that was only because Dolph was acting like an overprotective git. By now he'd probably gotten over his snit and would welcome Marshal back with open arms. Marshal chuckled to himself; he'd tasted Dolph's cooking, and if anyone needed help, he was poster boy for it.

Timothy answered the door, automatically cowering backward as Marshal invited himself in. The wizard scowled back at him. What was the brat afraid of? Did he think Marshal might hurt him? As if he would—especially when doing so would mean taking on Dolph, and likely Rab as well, and frankly he didn't hate the kid enough to jeopardize himself that way. In fact, he didn't really hate Tim at all; for a muggle, he was alright.

"What's your problem?" he snarled, making Tim cringe further away.

"Mr. Goodman's not home yet," Timothy murmured. "I'll tell him you came by."

"I was gonna teach you how to make…" And then he smelled it, a heavenly aroma wafting into the foyer from the kitchen. "What are you making?"

"Nothing. I mean, it's not me," said Tim, gesturing toward the source of the smell. "Mr. Goodman hired a chef fulltime to cook for us."

Marshal froze, his mouth hanging slightly open. For some reason, he felt so betrayed. Shaking off his shock, he stomped into the kitchen, ready to berate the hapless man, and once more he froze in place. A petite, dark haired witch in sparkling white robes and apron stood in front of the stove stirring a pot of sauce while an enchanted spoon stirred another one. In a frying pan was sizzling a thick slab of meat. She gave the pan a toss with her wrist and the meat neatly turned over to brown the other side.

"Well, hello there," Marshal cooed, sidling up to the counter where he could face her.

The woman cast him a disinterested glance and went back to her work. Thinking he must be part of the family, she responded simply with, "Hello. Will you be joining the family tonight?"

"I do believe I will," he answered, smiling. "I'm Wallace Marshal." When she didn't reply, he prodded, "And you are?"

_Very __busy_. "I'm Ophelia." _Please __go __away__ now_.

"Ophelia. What a lovely name." It could have been 'Dumpster Girl' and he'd have said the same. "Are you married? I don't see a ring."

"Marshal, leave her alone!" Dolph boomed from across the room. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you were lying about needing me," he said, his gaze never leaving the chef's face. "But I see you were telling the truth. This lovely lady has things well in hand. Lovely hands, too."

Dolph rolled his eyes. Great, now Marshal was enamoured of the new chef. He'd be lucky if she didn't quit within a week from the harassment. "You'd better not bother her." He saw Timothy edging into the room as if he expected trouble, and waved him over to the table, where the boy began to take out dishes to set the table.

Marshal held a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. "Moi? I have nothing but the purest intentions. By the way, Ophelia, your roast is well browned. You might want to put it in the oven now."

"I think I know how to do my job, Mr. Marshal," she snapped back.

She lifted her chin defiantly, and when she looked him full in the face her heart leaped in her own chest. He was adorable! Muscular, handsome, deep soothing voice, dark eyes that seemed to pierce through her, dark hair that just begged to have her hands run through it. Her knees went a bit weak, causing her to blush even though he'd certainly not noticed it. What was wrong with her? He was just a man, she'd dated plenty of men…long ago. None of them had made her feel this way, like a teenager spotting her beau. No! Must not become involved with the employer's family! She turned away and slid the pan off the flame.

Infuriatingly, Marshal merely smiled wider and said, "Call me Wallace…or Wally. No, not Wally, I hate that. Wallace."

_Beep__ beep__ beep_. Marshal and Ophelia's heads swiveled to Dolph, who'd removed a small device from his pocket. He shook his head and swore lightly under his breath. "I've got a call. Can't say when I'll be back. Timothy, behave yourself. Marshal—you behave yourself, too!" He hurried from the room and was gone.

"Where's he going?" asked Ophelia.

"He's a firefighter part time," Timothy explained proudly. "He got called in."

"I thought he worked at an animal clinic," she said, confused.

"He does," Marshal said, planting himself on a stool at the counter. "But he is also a firefighter. Don't let those glamorous jobs turn your head, though. Butchers are every bit as necessary."

"I take it you're a butcher?" she said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Why, yes, I am. And a bloody fine one, if you'll pardon the pun."

She laughed, not a forced snicker but a genuine giggle that made his ears burn and he felt himself flushing. After his wife had divorced him, after the first wizarding war, he'd been with many women over the years, all of them either one night stands or short flings. He had no desire to be truly close to another. So what was it with this witch? Was he flirting because he liked to flirt or because he wanted more? He'd barely met her, he knew nothing of her, yet the attraction was so strong he could almost taste it.

"Forgive me if I'm too forward, but would you like to go out with me?" he blurted.

"I, um…I don't date members of the family I work for," she said as she busied herself getting the roast into the oven. "Personal policy, you know."

Marshal snorted, then laughed. "Then you're in luck. I am no relation to Goodman at all. We're friends, that's all."

"This is really sudden. I don't even know you…"

"But you'd like to," he said softly, leaning forward, his eyes devouring her. "And I want to know you."

In the corner, next to the table, Tim rolled his eyes much like Dolph had. Great. This was just great. Now Marshal would be here all the time! He slammed a glass onto the table and the bottom of it shattered, sending shards all over the table and floor. Gasping in horror, he stared at the mess, at the remainder of the glass in his hand, and then at the two adults.

"I'll get it," Marshal said, breaking the silence. He took out his wand, and in a matter of seconds the glass was gathered and disposed of. "You okay there, kid? Did you cut yourself? You're lookin' a little peaked."

"I'm okay," Tim murmured back, stunned at how nice Marshal was being. He thought for sure he'd yell and throw a fuss, and then make a big deal of it when Mr. Goodman got home. Maybe having him smitten with the chef wasn't so bad after all.


	73. Oh, Baby, Baby

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 73 (Oh, Baby, Baby)

**February 11, 1939**

Tom edged round the corner just far enough to spy upon the diminutive form of Filius Flitwick entering the Great Hall. He'd assumed the boy was headed in this direction, but one can never be too careful. Until a little over two weeks ago, he hadn't known the bloke existed, yet ever since his shameful trouncing in the Dueling Club at the hands of this munchkin, he'd made it a point to watch the older student whenever and wherever possible. That included at mealtimes, and most particularly in the Dueling Club itself.

Tom sauntered casually up the corridor and entered the Hall, where he made a beeline for the Slytherin table as a matter of habit, not needing to think about it. When he sat down, he made sure he had an unobstructed view of the Ravenclaw table, where he noted the tiny boy on the far end, his head barely clearing the tabletop. No wonder he'd never noticed him before.

He ate in relative silence, ignoring the comments of Mulciber, Nott, and Lestrange, who'd surrounded him as usual. Today, in a short while, was another meeting, and this time he was ready. He'd been practicing non-verbal spells incessantly for two weeks, and if he did say so himself, he'd become rather proficient. Professor Spade had pointed out the necessity of utilizing such spells, and she was right; Tom was not averse to taking instruction when it aided him in some way.

Later that day, when Dueling Club was winding down, he approached Filius and nudged him in the back. The other boy turned, and recognizing Tom he smiled. To Tom it too closely resembled a smirk, and he definitely didn't like it. "I'd like to duel you," Tom said simply.

Flitwick cocked his head, bemused. He'd beaten this kid only a few weeks ago, and already he was asking for a rematch? Maybe he was a glutton for punishment. Was it really fair to engage a second year, knowing he didn't stand a chance? And yet, he was asking.

Filius shrugged his tiny shoulders and squeaked, "Okay."

They mounted the stage, to the surprise of the students below. Tom's eyes met with Portia and Lance, two seventh year Slytherins who studied him curiously. He gave an almost imperceptible twitch of a smile. The combatants stood back to back, paced outward, and turned to bow. Before Flitwick had even finished rising, Tom dropped to one knee and shot a curse without benefit of words. He got off two more in the time Flitwick jumped and parried, his wide dark eyes registering bewilderment at the sudden change in this younger boy.

Gathering his wits, Flitwick began to fight in earnest, and the hexes rang out one after another, to be deflected, avoided, returned. With dogged determination Tom held his ground, throwing every curse he could think of except the most damaging, for which he feared he'd be thrown out of Hogwarts if it came to light he knew such spells. The protective shield charms placed by the teacher at the beginning of class more than did their job as the hexes bounced round the room like lightning. Minutes passed, with the audience gasping and cheering, neither competitor gaining ground over the other—nor losing ground, a fact Tom would be quick to point out. All at once a _stupefy_ appeared out of nowhere—or more precisely, from behind Flitwick. It struck him in the back and he dropped like a wee sack of potatoes.

"Mr. Mulciber, get over here now!" bellowed Professor Spade.

Lewis Mulciber slinked round the stage, feigning innocence. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Don't even deny you shot Mr. Flitwick in the back. We all saw you and heard you." She glowered down at him, and he merely looked up at her with an insolent grin. "I have tried to be understanding with you, I have made allowances for your bullying behaviour. No more. Have it your way. You are officially out of the club. Report to the Headmaster; I'll be along in a few minutes to speak with him."

Undaunted, Mulciber turned to go. Tom ran up to him and whirled him round, fury etched in his features. "I could have beat him! You ruined it for me!"

"I was trying to help." Only now the boy seemed to shrink under the irate gaze of his friend.

"I didn't need help," Tom seethed. He shoved Mulciber in the chest. "Go on, go take your punishment. Let me warn you now, Lewis, don't ever do that again."

"Fine, I won't," mumbled Mulciber. He detached himself from Riddle and sprinted from the room. Right now, the Headmaster's office seemed the preferable place to be.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_Feb. 11, 1939_

_ As I've noted in previous entries, I've been practicing my command of non-verbal spells, ever since Flitwick humiliated me in Dueling Club. If I weren't such a powerful wizard, and so intelligent, I might not have advanced so quickly, but the fact remains that I am. In just over two weeks, I've learned to cast almost all my spells silently. Professor Spade was right, it is a distinct advantage. I'd have beat Flitwick this time if Mulciber hadn't interfered!_

_ The idiot not only creamed a firstie and refused to stop when told to do so, he shot Flitwick in the back while I was battling him, thereby getting himself kicked out of the Dueling Club and sent to the Headmaster's office. He bought himself a strapping from the groundskeeper, though it didn't change his attitude. Mulciber only understands force greater than his own, which is why he admires me. Anyway, the look on the faces of everyone watching while I proceeded to shellac a seventh year was priceless! Until Mulciber interrupted, that is._

Therese groaned out loud. "Seriously? You certainly love yourself, don't you?"

"I would have won," Tom retorted, slapping the diary shut as though she had no right to see it. "I am smart and powerful, and if you had any sense at all you'd join forces with me."

"That doesn't even make sense," she shot back. "If you're so powerful, why do you need me?"

"You have the body, you twat!" he growled. "Unless you can find one for me. I'd take that little friend of yours—Jonathan."

"No you won't! He's a nice boy, not like you, and I won't let you hurt him."

Tom snorted, then lifted his brow. "I had no intention of 'hurting' your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," she said, blushing. "You're just stupid."

"Methinks thou dost protest too much," Tom quoted, snickering.

"Shut up." She slammed the diary open again, and when Tom tried to invade her thoughts she clamped her hands over her ears and proceeded to sing. Why couldn't he go away and stay away?

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 24, 2001 **

"Good morning, honey." Bayly rolled over to gaze upon his wife, the beautiful face he couldn't wait to wake up to every morning for the rest of his life. He rested one hand on her waist to pull her a tad closer. It felt wonderful not only for the feel of her, but for her warmth to ward off the chill of the cold room.

Gloria turned her head to him with a low moan, her eyes watery, her lips frowning slightly. "Hi, sweetheart."

"What's wrong? Don't you feel good?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

She shook her head as the water started leaking from her tired eyes. "This is the third day in a row I feel so awful. I think I have the flu."

"Do you want me to get you something? Soup? Water?" he asked.

"No. I'm just glad it's Saturday and the babies aren't coming over today." She nuzzled in against his body and he automatically draped his arms around her. "I love Aidan and Adriel, but it's so hard to watch them when I feel sick."

"You should talk to your dad. He could tell you what's wrong."

She gave a little exasperated sigh. They'd been over this: she didn't want to bother Daddy with trivial things when he had a job to do. "I'm sure it's nothing serious. Just hug me."

They remained that way for some time, until Bayly excused himself to go to the loo. In his absence he heard Gloria retching onto the floor, causing his heart to skip a beat. The last time she'd been ill had been when those muggles drugged her and she was close to death. What if something like that had happened again? It was improbable, he realized, but…to be on the safe side, he had to know she was alright.

He came out of the bathroom, pretending not to have heard her vomiting. "I have to go out, Gloria. I'll be right back." Before she had time to raise her head from where it hung over the edge of the bed, he'd bolted from the room with his robes in hand, yanking them on as he ran toward the fireplace in the living room. Less than two minutes later he reappeared with Dr. Livingston on his heels, medical bag in hand.

Together they entered the bedroom, to the disgruntled squeal of Gloria when she saw her father coming in. "Bayly! I told you I'm fine! Daddy, it's nothing."

"Is that so?" queried the lanky man, sitting on the bed beside her to plant a kiss on her cheek. "Do you vomit on the floor on a regular basis?"

Gloria turned accusing eyes toward her husband, who dodged them by moving round the other side of the bed behind the doctor. "It's just the flu. I didn't want to drag you from work." And she'd already cleaned up the sick with her wand, so what was the big deal?

"Well, I'm here, so let's have a look." Her father removed his wand from the breast pocket of his robes and pulled back the blanket, relieved to see she wasn't buck naked. In a patient, that was fine; in his daughter, not so much. As he talked, he glided the wand up and down the length of her body, scarcely above her, skimming her nightgown at times. "Bayly, get a fire going in here, will you? Now Gloria, have you had any other symptoms? Any pain or stiffness?"

"No," she answered. She watched Bayly aim his wand at the fireplace in the room and instantly a bright flame was burning. She didn't feel the warmth yet, it was only a matter of time.

"Diarrhea? Weakness? Dizziness?" inquired her father.

"No…maybe a little weakness. And I'm kind of tired."

The wand was swirling now in a cyclone pattern that began a foot over her body and funneled down in ever smaller circles until it touched down on her stomach. Dr. Livingston nodded to himself and moved the wand lower, to the abdomen. He pushed gently around the area with his fingers, palpating the organs beneath the skin. When he'd finished, he murmured an incomprehensible incantation while circling the wand twice clockwise over the abdomen, then reversed for two more loops; the wand lifted in a jerky motion toward the ceiling. A golden glow emanated from Gloria's lower body, connected by a thin gold thread to the wand. Livingston burst into delighted laughter, startling the young couple.

"Congratulations, Gloria and Bayly. You're going to have a baby."

At first the pair were stunned into silence, then Bayly flew around the doctor to grasp his wife in a huge bear hug as he exclaimed, "A baby! Oh, honey, I love you so much!"

Gloria merely clung to her husband, alternately smiling and looking worried and ill. After a minute she said, "Daddy, is there anything to do about this nausea?"

"Way ahead of you, sweetie." He handed her a small vial of scarlet liquid that he'd taken from his medical bag. "Put three drops of this under your tongue now. Then do it every morning, and you should be fine. If not, let me know and we'll adjust the dose or the medicine."

She let go of Bayly, having to push him away so she could see her dad. "Thanks, Daddy. Will you let me come over and tell Mum later?"

"Only if you make sure I'm there when you tell her." He got up and closed his bag, still grinning. He was going to have a grandchild! His wife would be so ecstatic, he couldn't wait to see her face. "Bayly, will you see me out?"

Dr. Livingston walked out into the living room with the young man, then stopped Bayly by the fireplace with a hand on his arm. "I want to tell you something I should have said long ago." The solemn tone made Bayly cock his head warily. "My wife and I protested when you wanted to marry our daughter; we thought you weren't good enough because of…him." _Dolohov_. The hated name hung unspoken in the air between them.

"Sir, I—"

"Please, let me finish." The doctor took a deep breath. "I was as wrong as it is possible to be. I've watched you this past year and a half…you're exactly as Gloria claimed—generous, kind, and compassionate. If you're as good a father as you are a husband, my grandchild will be a very lucky boy or girl."

Bayly gave a lopsided, shy smile, ducking his head. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me."

"I wish you'd call me 'Dad'. Or at least Hugh."

_Dad_. He'd called Dolohov that because he'd been given no choice, although in his heart Severus Snape held that esteemed position. It seemed strange to even consider using it for another man. "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer Hugh. It's not personal, it's just…"

"I know," Livingston said, nodding. He did understand. If his own father had been a perverse, murdering psychopath who'd tortured and tried to kill him, he'd be leery of using the term for his father-in-law, too. He held out his hand to shake, and Bayly extended his as well. "Congratulations, son. Go take care of your wife."

He stepped into the fireplace, threw a pinch of floo powder, and was gone.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Severus glanced at the clock on the wall. If he'd known Bayly was going to be antsy and evasive, unable to concentrate, he wouldn't have scheduled this examination for Saturday morning. He had other things he could be doing, like gutting toads or defanging venomous snakes or filing his fingertips to sharp points to claw his own eyes out, any one of which was much more pleasurable than listening to the boy hem and haw around the questions like a—God forbid—typical Hogwarts student. If he wanted to hear that, he'd have scheduled _class_.

"If you're looking to create a potion to allow you to fly, what specific ingredient would you use?" he drawled, already anticipating the correct answer and praying Bayly got it right.

He really didn't enjoy the prospect of failing the kid on Potions master exams. In point of fact, while rendering pitiful grades to his students for their glaring shortcomings generally gave him a great deal of satisfaction, he'd never taken pleasure in seeing Bayly struggle. And this was no ordinary test, it was something that could alter Bayly's life. He tried to project the answer telepathically, almost flushing with shame at the idea of Trelawney or any of those other hacks thinking he believed in psychic crap.

Bayly hesitated. Was this a trick question? He'd assumed this exam covered only known material, not theoretical matters. What if he'd forgotten something, what if something had been discovered and he wasn't aware of it as he ought to be? "Um…well, there is no known flying potion. If I were creating one, I'd use Billywig's sting—fresh, not dried. Its ability to cause very short term levitation is a start."

"Correct." He saw Bayly let out a relieved breath. "And to increase the duration of flight?"

"I—I don't know, sir," the young wizard confessed. He winced as Professor Snape scribbled down a note on his pad.

"Name fifteen dragon products and their uses. Riding the beasts does not count, nor does using them as guard dogs or pack animals."

Bayly looked up into the air to gather his thoughts. His mouth moved slightly as he organized his answer. He faced his mentor and said, "The dung is used as fertilizer. Do I have to list all twelve uses of the blood? You know I know them."

Severus shook his head. He was absolutely certain Bayly knew the twelve uses, as all his students from fifth year up had it pounded into their heads in class. Metaphorically, of course, though he'd not be averse to the actual physical pounding if it would cure some of the rampant idiocy infecting the school. "That will not be necessary at this time. And they count as only one, nonetheless."

Bayly resumed his ceiling gazing. "Heartstring for wands. Liver, both as a delicacy and for organ potions. The hide for clothing and protective gear—is that two, then?"

"No. Neither is the delicacy—I said _uses_, and eating is not a use."

"Powdered horn for fertility creams. Oh—the bladder in old times was inflated to play Stichstock." He looked hopefully at Severus, as if hoping this was the end.

"That makes seven," Snape said, listing them in his notebook and ticking them off in tally form.

The youth scrunched his eyebrows together, thinking. Why was this so hard today? He knew this stuff! "Chinese Fireball eggshell for…" He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut. Damn it, why couldn't he remember? Ever since Dr. Livingston's visit this morning, he'd been unable to think at all.

In exasperation, Severus threw the quill down onto the table, followed by the notebook. The quill skittered to the edge, leaving a trial of black ink in its wake. "If you're not going to take this seriously, we can stop right now. I'm not going to waste my time."

"No, please!" Bayly pleaded, his hazel eyes resembling a begging puppy. The notion of disappointing the professor upset him as much as the thought of failing. "I know the answers."

"And yet you can't produce them because…?"

Bayly chanced a sly glance about the empty Potions lab, then smiled gleefully, unable to contain his excitement. "I'm not supposed to tell you anything until you and Aline come over to the Malfoys' house tonight, but Gloria's pregnant! We just found out."

The news hit Severus like a rush of cold water. He had not expected that at all. The boy he thought of as his son was going to have a child…he was going to be a grandfather, in a manner of speaking. He blinked rapidly, clearing his head. Suddenly he smiled and clasped Bayly's hand. "Congratulations, son! You're evidently thrilled, as I presume Gloria is."

Tempted to hug the professor, but mindful of the older wizard's aversion (unless high on potion fumes, he thought with a chuckle) Bayly contented himself with the handshake. "I really am. It's so wonderful."

With an odd wistfulness in his voice, Severus lamented, "Yes, it starts out that way. Then you enter upon the hormonal rollercoaster that is pregnancy, the ride men throughout the ages have taken and been fortunate to survive. Welcome to the club."

"What do you mean?" asked Bayly innocently, evidently puzzled.

Severus slapped him lightly on the back, smirking. "You'll find out. Now, back to your test."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Sirius landed on his rump with a thud and rolled a few times to a complete stop in a patch of long grass. That was one hell of a portkey ride! Then again, what could he expect from one obtained probably illegally and re-programmed for an unauthorized location? Bumpy rides were a hallmark of tampered-with devices, he'd learned in his auror training. Of course, that entailed forgetting for a moment that he'd not used a portkey in ages, and perhaps some of the blame lay with his inexperience.

He got to his feet and looked around him at the tall, green trees and endless patch of jungle, and…why was there a high wire fence surrounding the place, nearly hidden by the trees? He spun round and halted in astonishment. He hadn't expected to see a slew of contemporary buildings smack in the middle of the Amazon! Damned faulty portkey! Where the hell was he?

He shucked off his coat as waves of humid heat assailed him. Abigail had said it was summer here…it was always summer here. But in Salem it had been winter, and bloody cold to boot. Using his wand, he shrank the coat and put it in his pocket. Removing the map Ms. Conn had provided him, he unfolded it and quickly located the blinking red dot that was—supposedly—Neville. It covered an area of perhaps ten square miles, and lay near a wide river outside the city of Manaus, which (Sirius assumed) was where he presently stood. He'd known the portkey wasn't going to take him directly to Neville, he simply hadn't anticipated landing in a heavily inhabited territory. Disapparation seemed impossible here, meaning they'd established an anti-apparition barrier.

Heaving a disgruntled breath, he refolded the map and replaced it in his pocket. First things first. He had to find out exactly where he was, and then find a way out of here. He headed for the row of greenhouses, the closest buildings to the edge of the jungle. As he neared, he noticed a large pool of clear, blue water. It looked so inviting, and the sweat running down his temples beckoned him toward it. Why was it surrounded by a fence covered with signs written in some foreign language? Well, this was Brazil, which meant it was Brazilese. Was that even a word? No…what did they speak here? Portuguese! Yes, signs in Portuguese. Too bad he hadn't a clue what they said.

As there seemed to be no one about, he thought it wouldn't hurt to soak his feet and maybe splash some cool water on his face before trudging off to locate someone who spoke English. The gate was unlatched, so he went on in. He sidled toward the pool to have a look. Something moved in the water, a lot of somethings, in fact—hand-sized black fish with red bellies swimming back and forth together. That wasn't natural, was it? Then again, maybe people here liked to have fish in their swimming pools, you never know. He approached the edge, curious to see, and bent down close to the water.

A voice shouted in a frantic tone, and Sirius turned to look. He hadn't understood the words, though the tone made it apparent that something was wrong. A tall, average looking bloke in a white lab coat and tie, wearing round wire rim glasses was running toward him, screaming. The first thing that struck Sirius was how fast that old man could move, followed immediately by a sense of danger. He took out his wand, ready to defend himself, or possibly the man from whatever he was running from.

As the fellow got close, Sirius shouted back, "Do you speak English? I don't know what you're saying!"

"Get away from there!" The old gent was waving his arms frenetically, then all at once he had a wand, too.

Sirius aimed his at the newcomer and said calmly, "Stop now. I don't want to hurt you."

The bloke did indeed stop, apparently shocked. "You're—you're a wizard, too?" His accent was American, not so unlike the Conn family, although a bit more harsh and a tad nasal. Still, he didn't lower the wand. "Get away from the pool."

"Why—" was all Sirius got out before he heard the sound of splashing and turned his head to see one of the cute little fish leaping out of the pond directly at him, and its heavily toothed jaw didn't look any too friendly. He leapt straight up and bolted forward, tripping over his feet and landing sprawled on the cement; the piranha landed on the deck, flopping and wiggling, only inches away; it seemed to be trying to follow him. Sirius twisted and cast a stunning spell at the creature, which stopped it for a second, then it continued flopping his way.

Eyes wide, Sirius backed up in a crab crawl, pointed the wand, and uttered, "_Avada __kedavra_." The fish didn't even blink.

A moment later, the man who'd come to his aid cast a curse that lifted the fish into the air and smacked it down on the pavement, then whisked the piranha back into the pool with a wave of his wand. Instead of floating belly up, it shook itself and then made another arching jump in the air. "That's why. What are you doing here? Why didn't you read the signs?"

"I don't speak Portuguese," said Sirius dryly, as though it should be evident from his earlier assertion that he did not speak Portuguese.

The man closed the gate, locked it with his wand, and pointed. "That one says _Extreme__ Danger_. The one next to it says _Do__ Not __Touch__ Water __or__ Approach__ Pool_. And lastly, this one says _Evil__ Hungry__ Fish __Will __Eat__ You_. We naturally assumed anyone working here would know enough Portuguese to keep from becoming their latest meal."

"I don't work here. And no offense, sir, but what kind of lunatics keep piranhas in their swimming pool?"

The man straightened to his full height, taller than Sirius. He extended his arms out to encompass the mass of buildings visible from here. "I am Dr. Richard Stoltz, and you are evidently trespassing on my Research Labs. We're located, for security purposes, on the campus of the University of Amazonas. And that is not a swimming pool, it is a containment pool for these abominations created by that idiot Wormburg, from the Magical Creatures division."

"Why don't you just kill them?"

Stoltz rolled his eyes and sighed. "Do you think we haven't tried? Poisons, curses, hanging to dry—nothing works. Some moron fed them unicorn flesh, and now they won't die. So now we feed them materials we need to dispose of. At least they're good for that." He rubbed a hand through his thinning gray hair. "Who are you and why are you here?"

Sirius extended a hand, smiling sheepishly. "My apologies. I am Sirius Black, auror in training. I'm searching for a wizard named Neville Longbottom."

"Neville!" exclaimed Stoltz, his jaw dropping. "What's he wanted for?"

"You know him?" Sirius exclaimed right back, excited.

"Yes, he spent a few weeks here studying Herbology under my sponsorship." If he'd been the bragging sort, he'd have noted that he was known around the world as the Father of Modern Herbology. This auror apparently hadn't a clue. "I can't believe he's done anything criminal, not Neville."

"No, he hasn't," Sirius quickly assured him, walking alongside the fellow to wherever he was being led, keeping pace with his long strides. "I need to find him for personal reasons. Did he tell you anything about his parents?"

"No, why?"

"Long story."

Stoltz motioned toward one of the buildings, a tall modern structure. "Come have lunch with me and tell me about it. I may be able to help find Neville."

"Yes, maybe you can," Sirius agreed. The offer of lunch didn't sound half bad, either. "And thanks for warning me about those piranha. I might have got an unwanted nose job, or a bite in the arse."

"You're quite welcome. I guess we'll need to start locking that gate fulltime. I wouldn't mind losing a few of the researchers here, but they might shut us all down." He turned left and continued down a shaded outdoor corridor. "Do you like Portuguese food?"

"As long as it's not biting back, I'm game," Sirius answered.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Lucius, holding Ladon in his arms, greeted Tanassov and Luna at the front door to the manor. Social convention dictated that he invite them in, so he did, though in the back of his mind it irritated him. They were stealing Marcus from him; why should he be nice to them? Yes, he'd handpicked them to be Marcus' parents, but that didn't make letting go of the boy any easier…well, perhaps a tiny bit easier, knowing he would still have contact, he'd still be Uncle Lucius if not Father. Nonetheless, it hurt. The couple stopped in the foyer to offer their goodbyes.

"We can only stay a moment," Luna said, brushing Marcus' hair from his face. "Be a good boy now, and we'll see you soon."

"Okay, Mummy," Marcus answered, hugging her as she crouched on the floor next to him. He planted a kiss on her cheek, and she did the same to him.

The sight made Lucius' vision literally go red, though he forced a smile onto his face for Marcus' sake, set Ladon on the floor, and hugged Marcus tightly. "Did you have a good time with…" It was so hard to say, he grated in his throat as he choked it out. "With your new mum and dad?"

Marcus nodded vigorously, smiling brightly. "We went to this place where there was all sorts of boats and all the buildings were sinking, and I got to ride a boat."

Lucius looked up sharply and Tanassov drawled, "Venice."

"Ah," Lucius answered. He stood up to allow Marcus to greet Narcissa, who'd come in with a freshly changed Khala. "Darling, Marcus went to Venice."

"How lovely," she answered, giving the child a squeeze as hard as Lucius had. She stroked his hair and patted his head. "Was it pretty this time of year?"

"Yes, Auntie Narcissa. Mummy and Tate (pronounced tah-teh) said next time maybe I can go visit the castle they live in. Won't that be cool?" Marcus said, blue eyes sparkling like clear lakes.

Narcissa turned her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "It will be wonderful. That's where you're going to live soon, so I suppose you ought to get used to it."

Tanassov held out a hand to Lucius, not oblivious to the pain their presence caused. "We should go. Marcus is a delight, we can not thank you enough for choosing us to raise him."

Luna came over to Narcissa, who had handed Khala off to Lucius and had Ladon clinging to her leg, for he'd noted how unhappy his Mama seemed. She said quietly, "Don't worry, Narcissa, he won't forget you. I'll make sure of it—and you'll be visiting often."

"Thank you, Luna. We will indeed be making a lot of trips to see him."

Luna bent down to hug Marcus once more, then moved aside for her husband to hoist the lad into his arms and rattle off something in Bulgarian. Marcus laughed, and Luna smiled indulgently. Tanassov then lowered the child to the ground. "We'll see you all soon."

After they'd gone, Lucius led Marcus into the main living area with Narcissa and the other children. "What did Tan—what did Tate say to you, Marcus, right at the end there?"

"I don't know," Marcus answered, lifting his face to Lucius and beaming a cheerful smile. "I like it when he talks funny like that."

"And you're happy with him and…Mummy?" Lucius persisted.

Marcus nodded emphatically. "They're so nice to me, like you and Auntie Narcissa." Noting the sadness in the man's face, he came closer to grasp him about the waist, his spindly arms not going all the way round. In a pleading tone he said, "I love you, Uncle Lucius. It's okay if I love them too, isn't it?"

Lucius picked him up, nose to nose as he said, "Yes, Marcus, it is perfectly okay for you to love them, too. We want you to love them. We'll just miss you terribly." He set the boy down and ushered him off to the corner with Ladon and Khala. "Go play now. I need to talk to Auntie Narcissa."

He moved to the sofa, dragging his wife with him, and settled in next to her, so close she was nearly on his lap. She threw her arms round his neck and he folded his across her body. With his lips nuzzled against her neck, he murmured, "It will be alright, sweetheart. If he has to leave us, this is the best way. As soon as he has moved in with them, we'll begin making plans to visit."

"I don't want to visit, I want him here," Narcissa replied stubbornly.

"I know that, and I agree. Nevertheless, we don't have a choice, so we must make the best of the time we've got." He kissed her neck, moved his lips to her mouth, and snogged her right there in front of the kids. Then he drew a deep breath and said, "Come on, love. Severus and Aline are bringing the babies in a bit, and Bayly and Gloria will be here in an hour. I believe they have some kind of news to share."

"Maybe Bayly passed all his Potions master exams," Narcissa replied, sitting up. If so, there'd be a party to plan. That would help take her mind off things. In the meantime, Lucius was right, she ought to be spending time with the children, especially Marcus. She got up, went to the corner where the children were playing a silly game, and sat down on the floor with them.

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(A/N: I got the idea to send Sirius to the University of Amazonas from Mottsnave's story, _The __New __Skin_. It is a prequel to her _The__ Clear__ Cut_, and both star Severus Snape. Richard/Dick Stoltz is borrowed from this series. Check her out, she is a great author.)


	74. Shades of Grey

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 74 (Shades of Grey)

**October 20, 1979**

Lord Voldemort was in a pissy mood. Not unusual, to say the least, but it spelled bad news for anyone around him, most especially his Death Eaters. This time his ill temper was a direct result of the vampire cult's refusal to ally themselves with him, a partnership he'd been counting on if he were to take over the Ministry quickly and efficiently through the vampires' ability to hypnotize. Now he'd have to rely on the same old methods that hadn't worked up to this point, and frankly he was sick of it!

He stormed out of his bedroom into the kitchen, where Bellatrix sat on a high stool, bare legs crossed, holding a Twinkie in her black-nailed hand. Spying the master, she jumped down, dropping the muggle treat on the counter, and faced the wizard. She'd considered, for a split second, diving beneath the counter, but he'd already seen her; too late.

"Master, you're up!" she said cheerily.

He glared at her, making her shrink like a flower under the hot sun. "Is Rookwood here yet?"

"No, my lord." She nudged the Twinkie toward the edge, hoping it would fall before he saw it. It moved a bare centimeter. She pushed it again, a tad harder; the creamy filling had begun to leak out, and like glue anchored the cake to the tile. Scowling, she gave it a flick and it rolled right to the edge and hovered there, teetering.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" snapped the dark wizard.

Bella glanced up at the master, horrorstruck. "No, my lord! I mean, I was—it—eating—and you…no, my lord." She shook her head, her long black locks swaying. "Did you want one?"

"No. And you may leave. I wish for privacy." He turned up his nose and stalked from the room into the interior chamber, where he threw himself onto his throne. Cradling his head in his hands, he mulled over the situation for the millionth time. So he'd lost a potential collaborator, one that would have made all his dreams come to fruition. He'd survive. He had no choice in that matter, not since he'd created those horcruxes. A bare hint of a smile at his own cleverness touched his skeletal face. He was nothing if not resilient. And cunning, he was that, too.

Several minutes elapsed, and then a Death Eater entered unannounced, as Bella had taken the hint and made herself scarce. Voldemort lifted his face, frowning. It was Rookwood, and beside him was a hulking man with dirty, matted grey hair streaked with its original brown, his face covered in several day's growth of whiskers. Choosing not to cast stones in the appearance department, in light of his own disfigurement, Voldemort refrained from mentioning the man's similarity to a wolf, despite the fact that the full moon had passed over two weeks ago.

"Rookwood, you are excused," he said calmly, even before the wizard had been given time to grovel properly.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Rookwood bowed deeply, let out the breath he'd been holding—both from dread of his master and the outrageous odor emanating from this beast beside him—and mumbled, "As you wish, my lord." He turned and ran, lest the master change his mind.

"I hear you're lookin' for me," rasped the wolfish man nonchalantly.

Voldemort didn't speak. He got up from his throne to approach the stench-laden creature; a quick spell cast round the offensive area blocked it nicely. He circled the burly bloke, eyeing him closely. He found it amusing that Fenrir Greyback should have a name so indicative of his future. Norse word for 'wolf or dog', combined with…well, Greyback, a perfect description of the man. It took 'meaningful name' to a whole new level. He'd heard of this Greyback years ago, of the fear he was able to instill in parents at the very threat of attacking their children. If he, Voldemort, could manipulate this fear to his own ends, Greyback could prove very useful.

"I may have a proposition for you," Lord Voldemort said, coming to a halt in front of Greyback. "I'll know once I've seen what I need to see."

Without warning he cast a silent Legilimens, and Greyback went numb, his mind trying futilely to fend off the assault commencing upon it. He was used to being in control, being the strong one, yet he felt like a helpless baby as this skinny wizard mentally raped him, rifled through his thoughts, his memories, as casually as taking a stroll in the wood.

Incidents he'd not remembered in ages came pouring out, one after another, and he relived them for the enjoyment of this incredibly powerful wizard. He'd believed Rookwood and the rest exaggerated when they spoke in awe of this great master whose magical talent was unrivaled in all of history, yet in these few short minutes he understood the truth. If Voldemort chose to kill him now, there was not a damned thing he could do about it, and the idea frightened him…he wasn't accustomed to being frightened.

_He__ was__ a__ boy__ of__ fifteen, __perhaps__ not__ handsome,__ but__ not__ ugly__ either,__ headstrong__ and__ tough,__ bent__ on __having__ his __own __way.__ Down __at__ the__ local__ pub__ they__'__d__ scheduled__ some__ celebration __or __other__—__what__ it__ was __had__ long __since __been__ forgotten__—__and __he __intended__ to__ go,__ if__ only __to __flout__ his__ parents__' __authority__ over __him.__ He__'__d__ sneaked __from__ the__ upper__ room__ of__ his__ house,__ out__ the __window __in__ the__ bedroom__ shared__ with__ his __brother,__ careful__ not__ to__ make__ too__ much__ noise__ lest__ his__ father__ come __round__ with__ the__ belt__ and__ give__ him__ what __for.__ He__'__d__ skulked__ along__ the __alley __behind __the __pub,__ inhaling__ the__ aroma__ of__ beer__ and__ vomit__ and __urine,__ exhilarated__ and__ excited._

_ That was where it happened. The wolfman snagged his neck from behind, digging his claws in and tugging, making Fenrir spin in a wide arc. He'd got only a glimpse of the wild, terrifying face covered with hair before he was being viciously bitten in the throat. He shoved back, he punched, he kicked and screamed, all to no avail. The sharp teeth sank into his cheek, permanently scarring him. Dreadful growls and shrieks accompanied the ripping of flesh. _

_He passed out. Only later, once he'd healed somewhat, did it occur to him to wonder why the werewolf had not killed him, had not even eaten chunks of his flesh. It had bitten him, contaminated him, changed him from human to beast in the space of a few minutes. Yet it let him live._

_ Everything had changed that day. His parents had thrown him out of the house under the pretext that his illness presented a danger to themselves and to his younger siblings. He believed then and now that it was only an excuse, and if they'd found another reason he'd have been out on his arse even sooner. He'd been left alone, destitute, hungry…and bitter. At the werewolf who bit him, at his own family, at society for hating werewolves, who'd not caused their own affliction. As time went on the loathing only grew._

"You still detest humans, don't you?" asked Voldemort teasingly, as though he couldn't see that very well for himself. Greyback merely nodded dumbly, and then the next image flashed into place.

_He__ was __an __adult__ now,__ perhaps__ twenty-five __or __so.__ The__ scars__ on__ his __face __made__ him__ terrifying __to__ children __in__ particular,__ and__ he__ loved __to __watch__ their__ reactions __to__ him.__ He __was __in__ Diagon __Alley,__ on __his__ way__ to__ Knockturn__ Alley,__ when __he__ spied__ a__ little__ boy __of__ no__ more __than __five__ standing __on __the__ corner__ all__ alone.__ He __glanced__ around,__ licking__ his__ lips. I__t__ was__ so__ tempting__…__ but__ so__ many __wizards __about,__ he __couldn__'__t__ possibly__ take__ his__ time__ biting__ the__ kid,__ savoring__ the__ almost__ sexual__ pleasure__ it__ gave__ him,__ and__ still__ get__ away __before__ the __wizards__ attacked__ him._

_Nevertheless, he felt drawn to the kid, his feet moving of their own accord closer, closer. If he bit the boy, he wouldn't turn into a werewolf, for it wasn't the full moon; he could feast and bite all he wanted any other day of the month, and cause only minimal effects on a child, like craving raw meat. He could carry the brat away, have his fun, and no one would be the wiser as to who was responsible. They'd find the kid, heal his wounds, and that would be the end of it._

_ "Hello, little boy," he said. His voice didn't yet carry the heavy rasp he had now._

_ The brown head tilted up and soulful brown eyes looked up at him. To Greyback's astonishment, the kid didn't look scared of him. "Hi," he said shyly._

_ "I'm Greyback. Fenrir Greyback," he offered, not knowing why he'd done such a thing. Now he'd have to obliviate the brat besides. "And you are?"_

_ "Remus Lupin," said the boy. "Daddy is buying school stuff for my sister." He pointed vaguely in the direction of a few shops. "I got lost, and he said if I get lost to stay still and he'll find me."_

_ A surge of fury rose in Greyback, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe the fact that Remus' father loved him, worried about him, wouldn't kick him out of the house—or would he, if his precious developed a serious illness like lycanthropy? Ordinarily the fury would have subsided quickly, but then he heard a voice shouting._

_ "Remus! Get away from that man!" A wizard shabbily similar in appearance to the young boy had appeared and was stalking rapidly up the sidewalk. He jerked Remus by the arm out of Greyback's reach._

_ The other man sneered back, "What's your problem?"_

_ Mr. Lupin stared back, undaunted. "I don't care to have my son hanging about with unsavory characters." With that he dragged Remus away back toward the book store. _

_ Greyback glared after him, seething. The wizard obviously didn't know Fenrir was a werewolf, had no knowledge of him at all, yet he dared suppose he was up to no good? No one offended Fenrir Greyback and got away with it. No one. "Just wait till the full moon, Mr. Lupin. I've got a present for you."_

Voldemort twisted his cruel mouth into a semblance of a smile as he chortled, "You attacked that little boy! Remus Lupin, one of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix members, is a bloody werewolf! That is too funny!"

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_October 20, 1979_

_ I have enlisted Fenrir Greyback and his troop of werewolves as our allies in the war to come. Although I sense he bears no allegiance to me, his hatred of wizardkind for their prejudice against him is strong enough to compel him to act in our mutual interests. His sole concern is access to victims, which I gladly offered him. In his sick mind, he envisions creating an army of werewolves large enough to conquer the wizarding world, which of course will never happen. Once I've got what I want, we will crush the werewolf population and destroy them as well._

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**February 25, 2001**

"…and they plan to change the name of the University next year to the 'Federal University of Amazonas'," Dr. Richard Stoltz prattled on as he led Sirius to the edge of the campus in a secluded location where it was safe to apparate. It was so nice to have someone new to talk to.

Sirius stopped, giving a weary sigh. His new boots, reaching to his knees, felt tight and constricting, as did the rest of the heavy clothing in this sweltering heat, despite it being early morning. A hat perched atop his head resembled the top half of a tortoise shell. A bulky pack rubbed uncomfortably on his back; Professor Stoltz had insisted on giving him provisions for the trip, including food and a vast array of first aid supplies—not exactly heartening.

"Yeah…I don't care. No offense, Dick. You've been very kind to me, and thanks so much for everything, including the clothing and pack, but I've got a journey ahead of me, which I should have started yesterday."

Dick, looking slightly hurt, nodded. "Yes, well I wish you luck in finding Neville. He'll be so happy to hear about his parents." He adjusted his glasses and pointed further up where a long, wide, dark river flowed. "That's Rio Negro. Follow that, and you ought to find him. He said he'd be studying vegetation in the jungle along the river, and by now he's probably about twenty miles up."

"Thanks," Sirius said, nodding back at him. According to the map given him by Abigail Conn, it was roughly fifteen or twenty miles to the red dot which indicated Neville was near.

"And make sure you don't apparate into the river. That could be very unpleasant," smiled the American wizard.

Sirius grinned. "Yeah, I'll try to remember that." He walked a little further, till he sensed that apparition was possible, and instantly disappeared.

He reappeared in a growth of vegetation up to his waist, and suddenly was very grateful for the hot, heavy boots and strange little hat. Above him, wound about a thick branch and hanging ominously down, was a boa constrictor. Sirius gulped. He eased slowly away in the direction of the river, which lay several meters to his left. To his surprise, it wasn't black at all, as the name implied. In fact, it was more the colour of strong tea; now he had a craving for tea.

Back to business. With the notion that anything and everything in this jungle was potentially harmful, he set to charming himself with every protective spell he'd ever learned, and a few he made up as he went. That should protect him from natural elements, at any rate: they could repel rain, venomous toads, annoying malaria-carrying insects. If an indigenous tribe decided to shoot him with poison darts, he didn't think the charms would be quite effective. Or if a boa strangled him to death…or if he were drowning. Why had he come to this hellhole again?

He lay his wand on his palm and said, "Point me to Neville Longbottom."

The wand cranked exactly twelve degrees to the right. Great, he was headed in the correct direction. Unfortunately, that direction happened to lead right into the heart of the jungle. He called out Neville's name as loud as he could. Nothing answered save the squawking of various birds he'd never before seen, and the boa in the tree twisted its head round to eye him hungrily. Then again, maybe it was best not to make too much noise, what with the possibility of stirring up loads of trouble he may not be equipped to handle.

Grumbling to himself, he steeled himself and plowed into the jungle, and almost immediately the light dimmed so much he wondered if there'd been an eclipse. The canopy of trees was so thick that sunlight managed to get through only in patches. Yes, this would be fun, as if it weren't already the thrill of the century to trudge through a steamy jungle to an unknown destination, sweating half to death and lugging a pack on his back. He solemnly prayed he'd find Neville today, for the prospect of spending the night in the jungle frankly terrified him.

Hours upon hours passed, with only the tramp of his boots on the moist jungle floor. Every now and again he'd perform the Point Me charm, changing course slightly here and there. How far into this awful place was he? What if he ran right upon one of those cannibalistic tribes he'd heard about? Sure, he had magic, but against a whole group of them? It was late afternoon already. Was he even going to find Neville today? He winced. His feet hurt, and he did not want to contemplate trying to make a bed in a tree, which with his luck would be home to a snake or a jaguar. Shit! He'd forgotten about jaguars!

"Hello there. Can I help you?"

Sirius jumped half a meter in the air, spun round, and came down panting. A quick grab of his crotch told him he hadn't voided his bladder. "Merlin's ghost, you scared the shit out of me!" Just to be sure, he tugged at his breeches. No, everything seemed okay in that department, too.

The young man approached, squinting. He wore a startled, confused expression. "Sirius? Sirius Black?"

Sirius cocked his head, studying the other. He'd not considered that Neville might sport a fierce black beard, yet there he was in all his glory. He broke into a relieved and grateful smile. "Neville! Thank God I found you."

"Why? What's wrong?" exclaimed the younger wizard. There could be no reason that Sirius would be here unless to inform him of something tragic.

So happy he could have danced, had he been able to lift his feet high enough in those boots, Sirius engulfed Neville in his arms, thumping him on the back. "You ought to ask what's right," he said, breaking away and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Alright…what's right?" Neville parroted for him.

"Maybe you should sit down." Sirius glanced about, then rephrased, "Or not. There's been a development…um…how can I say this? Your parents are getting better."

Neville stared at him, frowning. This wasn't funny. Then again, although Sirius was a joker, would he come all the way here just for that? Not likely. "What do you mean?"

"In a nutshell, there's the good news and the bad news," Sirius explained, holding out one hand for the good news, and flipping it over for the bad news. "Clichéd, I know. Since most people like the good news first, here it is: someone I am not at liberty to divulge—mainly because I don't know who—stole your parents from the hospital—"

"You call that _good_ news?" Neville interrupted in a shriek. In the distance, a large cat growled, and he hastened to hush.

"You didn't let me finish. Whoever it was took them to a Medicine Man in some tribe in America. He managed somehow to heal their brains. They're fully functional now, walking, talking, eating." Sirius smiled hopefully. "Say something."

Neville's jaw had dropped nearly to the jungle floor. "They are? For real? You're not lying to me?"

"No, I'm not. I'm not that cruel…anymore."

The younger wizard threw his arms round Sirius again, lifting him off his feet and twirling him in a circle, right before dropping the squirming Black, who rolled into a thatch of plants. "I can't believe it! I never thought I'd get to see the day. Sirius, you've made me the happiest man in the world."

"Uh, Neville, there's still the bad news," reminded Sirius, getting up off the ground and brushing himself off. Dirt clung to the sweat marks on his clothes. "They don't remember anything of the past. They can recall most of what has happened since the cure, but nothing before that."

Neville's smile slid off his face. In a barely audible tone he murmured, "They still don't remember me, do they?"

"No. I'm sorry." He paused, letting the bloke come to terms with this simultaneously incredible yet sad bit of news. After a few minutes, he ventured, "The thing is, the ones who abducted them want to keep trying for a complete cure. Only they can't take your parents back to the hospital or they will be arrested for kidnapping. That's why I'm here…I've come to ask you to come back with me. Come meet your parents, bring them back to St. Mungo's."

"Yeah…sure," replied Neville distractedly. This was all happening so fast, he didn't know what to believe. Mum and Dad were better, but not better. What good would it do to meet them if they didn't know him? And yet, every fiber of his being screamed that he wanted to see them, to embrace them, to let them know who he was. To love them…

"By the way," Sirius said, "I was told you'd be close to the river. I've been walking all day into the jungle, so you've got to be a good forty miles inland."

Neville pointed ahead and to the right. "The river is right over there. Can't you hear it? It curves. You probably walked in a circle or something." He tromped over to where he'd been working when the intruder arrived, and looked down at the plants. They could wait. They'd be here later, if he came back. He picked up his pack and shoved his magnifying glass, mini-trowel, slides, pouches, and other tools into it. "Let's go then."

Sirius slung the pack off his own back, let it fall onto the ground, and opened it to dig through. Taking hold of the portkey, he carefully removed it, snatched hold of his pack, and held out the portkey to Neville. "Grab tight. It's a long, bumpy ride."

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**February 28, 2001**

Something swept across the hallway with the barest rustling sound. Marcus swung his head toward it, seeing nothing. He squeezed harder on Luna's hang and plastered himself to her leg. The corridors in this old castle were cold, too, and he didn't like it. The whole place was too big, too drafty, too…scary. He'd thought he was going to enjoy visiting the castle, and he had—at first. Mummy and Tate had agreed with the Malfoys to allow Marcus to stay overnight, and now he didn't want to stay. But if he said so, they might get angry with him; he didn't want his new parents cross with him.

Luna swung open a tall wooden door and led the lad in. A fire burned brightly in the huge fireplace at the far end of the room. Smiling, she gestured at it and said, "There you go, sweetie. Go sit by the fire and get warm. Soon it will be time for supper. Would you like to go in the main Hall where the students eat?"

Marcus hesitated. "Is that what you and Tate do?"

"Sometimes. Not always. We thought you might like getting a glimpse of the people here." In the entire day, they'd met very few of the students, and she could guess why. Her husband had likely ordered them to stay out of the corridors except during class change in order to keep Marcus out of sight.

Together they crossed the room and sat on the bearskin rug in front of the fire. The crackling sound was comforting, and Marcus liked the smell of burning wood. Gradually his bones began to feel warmer again. He leaned against Luna, who pressed him to her chest.

"What room is this?" he asked, looking around. Three walls were lined with shelves covered with hundreds of books. In back of him set an enormous, heavy wooden table, around which he counted three chairs.

"It's Tate's private library, which means you can come in here whenever you want, unless your father is busy in here," she answered, brushing his golden hair back from his face.

"There's something out there," he said suddenly. If he nuzzled any closer to her, he'd be on top of her lap.

"Out where?" Luna looked around them, then at the closed library door.

"In the hall," he whispered. "I can hear it."

Luna paused, contemplating. It made sense a werewolf would have enhanced hearing. If she recalled correctly, Harry said Professor Lupin had exceptionally good hearing and sense of smell. "What does it sound like? I hope it isn't a Blibbering Humdinger. I hear they can really wreak havoc on stone, and this castle is made of it."

"Moving…it's moving, following me," he responded, eyes wide, a catch in his voice.

"Oh, that can't be good," Luna replied in a near whisper herself. "You're not even made of stone."

The door burst open and Marcus screamed. Luna's wand flew into her hand and she whirled, shoving the boy behind her. At the sight of the housekeeper, she sighed in relief and put her wand back. She turned to Marcus, hugging him as she said, "Don't be afraid, son. It's just a talasam." His trembling persuaded her to go on. "You know how Auntie Narcissa and Uncle Lucius have house elves?"

Marcus nodded. At first he'd been afraid of the elves, too.

"Well, here in Bulgaria, talasams are used in much the same way."

She beckoned the creature forward, and it bobbed across the room to stand in front of her. It was light coloured, almost blond, and looked for all the world like a great big ball of yarn or a pompom on long, twiggy legs, with similar long, twiggy arms and tiny hands and feet. Large, blue eyes peeped out from the hair, underneath a red velvet bow. It stood approximately two feet tall.

"Marcus, this is Pelka. She is one of the talasams who clean the rooms on this level." Luna repeated most of her introduction in Bulgarian, and the talasam bent its scrawny legs in a curtsy. It peered inquisitively at the little boy, who stared back at it.

"Hi," he said shyly from around Luna's back. It merely waved at him.

"Most talasams can't talk, at least not human language," Luna explained. "But there are a few who can, like Dora. You'll meet her in the kitchens. There are many talasams here in the castle."

"They won't hurt me?" he asked, getting a little braver.

"Of course not. You're Headmaster Tanassov's son," Luna said, smiling demurely. No need to tell the child that talasams were capable of extreme, even violent acts to protect those they loved or were loyal to. "Just watch where you walk. Many of them are black or dark coloured, so they're harder to see in the shadows. They like to hide on stairs and trip people."

Marcus sat up straight and extended a hand to stroke the creature, who gave a strange, purring sound. He giggled and jerked his hand back. "It's cute."

"Yes, she is," Luna laughed. Although she wouldn't have dared pet one of the household staff for fear of offending them, apparently this one didn't mind it from a little boy. "Are you warm now? Would you like to go eat before I show you to your room?"

Marcus hung back, clinging to her. "I don't wanna be alone in my room, Mummy."

She pulled him close again. Poor dear, so used to having his pack around. Once they'd died or been scattered, he had gotten used to being close to the Malfoys. It would take time for him to learn to sleep alone. There was no rush on that front. "That's alright, sweetie. I'll charm a couch into a bed for the night, and you can stay in the room with me and Tate."

"Can I have pudding with supper?" he asked hopefully.

"After supper," she said, clearly emphasizing the 'after'. She stretched out a hand and muttered a command in Bulgarian. A red wool jumper with the insignia of Durmstrang on the chest zipped through the door and into her hand, and she turned to face the boy. He automatically lifted his arms, and she slipped it over his head. "There you go. That will keep you warm."

"And now food?"

"Now food." She took his hand to lead him to dinner. Dimitar was expecting them in the Hall; he was anxious to show off his new son to the staff and students.

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Greyback stomped back and forth, pacing his cell as he did every day, every night, waiting, waiting for an opportunity. His breath came out in puffs of steam in the frigid air filtering through Azkaban via the glassless windows lining each corridor. The row of cells, bound by bars too tightly placed to squeeze through, even for a werewolf, faced a blank wall, with a barred window far to the right and to the left of Greyback, letting him see at times small patches of sky, and nothing else. He'd almost forgotten what the rest of the world looked like. All he heard day in and day out was the whistling of wind and the pounding of surf on the rocks this damnable place was built upon. Oh, and the cursing and moaning of the other prisoners. He could do without that, thank you very much.

For two and a half years he'd been stuck in this pit, a pile of straw for a bed as if he were an animal. He stopped for a moment and chuckled at the irony. He _was_ an animal, more so than most of those idiot humans realized. If it weren't for the aurors who came round once a week to _scourgify_ him along with the rest of the inmates, he'd not bother to wash or to care for his matted hair and beard, as he'd not done when he'd been free. Hygiene was for humans and cats, and he was neither. In fact, he scarcely recalled being human at all, it had been so long since he'd been bitten, so long since he'd renounced all claim to that dubious honour. How he missed raw meat, and little children to bite, and terrorizing the citizenry.

He resumed pacing and seething. Voldemort had gone down…not a great loss in the scheme of things, except he'd promised to allow werewolves free rein. Greyback spat on the floor. Like the rest of humanity, he was a liar; he'd have never brought about Utopia for werewolves, it had been a pipe dream. As for the army of werewolf children Greyback had been creating, he couldn't help but wonder what had become of them. Not that he cared, per se, only that he wondered. He'd indoctrinated them as best he could within the time allotted; whether they had learned to hate wizards as they should remained to be seen.

The tiniest hint of a click reached Greyback's sensitive ears. A door had unlocked. Being unable to see down the hall, the big man sniffed the air. He was coming. Tonight was the night, Greyback could feel it in his bones. The auror sent to _scourgify_ the cell entered at the furthest end of the corridor, as usual, and began to clean the cells one by one, burning the old mats or straw and supplying the cells with fresh. By the time he'd reached Greyback's cell, the werewolf had positioned himself on the floor, away from his sleeping area, his back up against the bars. By all appearances, he was cooperating as he'd done every other week of his incarceration.

The auror stood out of reach, aimed his wand, and the pile of straw went up in a burst of flame. A few moments later, a fresh pile appeared in its place. He was set to move on when he heard a rasping, bark-like voice. The auror halted, somewhat stunned. None of the prisoners ever talked to him anymore, they knew better. Curious, he said, "What?"

A mumbled reply was his response. Greyback held out a dirty hand with long, yellowed nails to the side, waving it in a strange motion that made no sense. He gestured vehemently at the other side of the room. Furrowing his brow, the auror stepped a bit closer and bent down to get a look at whatever this convict was yammering about. In that split second, Greyback's other hand lurched backward, grabbing the auror by the belt and drawing him in and down; before the man could blink, Greyback was on his feet, spun round, and thrust his free arm through the bars to choke the guard. He wrenched the poor bloke's neck so hard the 'snap' was heard at the far end of the hall.

He snatched the wand from the dead fingers before it had a chance to fall, let the man slip to the floor, and backed up. "_Confringo!_" he bellowed. The bars of his cell literally blew out into the corridor, clanking and making all manner of noise as they crashed against the wall and onto the stones, and he stepped out behind them, smiling cruelly, showing his sharp, filthy, pointed teeth. Patience had paid off.

He ran to the nearest window, blasted it out as well, then clamped the wand in his teeth. Here was a trick he'd never before let anyone know he'd learned to do: as the prisoner in the cell across from the window watched in horror, and as the rest of the cellblock pleaded to know what was going on, without the aid of the full moon Greyback began to change, to transform into his wolf self, which to be honest was not so very different from his human form anymore.

A group of aurors burst through the door at the other end of the corridor just as Greyback leaped onto the broken window ledge and flung himself into the icy water thirty meters below. The guards raced to the window, but the pitch black night offered no insight as to his whereabouts. Even the sound of him striking the water was muffled by the roar of the waves.

With the escape alarm ringing faintly in the background, Greyback surfaced in the choppy, frosty sea, the wand still clutched tightly in his mouth. In the form of a werewolf, his grey-streaked-with-brown fur offered protection from the cold, as well as allowed him to swim farther. He'd need that, since he'd have a very long swim ahead of him to vacate the area before morning, before aurors could locate him. All he needed to do was make it past the anti-apparition barrier…only a few miles. He could do that.


	75. Prophet of Doom

19

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 75 (Prophet of Doom)

**October 6, 1938**

Tom enjoyed Divinations class. Whether he fully believed what Professor Katz had to say was another matter. Reading the dregs in a teacup hardly seemed like a practical way to determine the course of one's life, yet they'd devoted the first four weeks of class to it. Even so, he frankly found it fascinating that people were able to accurately predict the future at all, in any manner—if not all the time, even in bits and pieces. He knew it was so because the instructor had taught them about the Hall of Mysteries where the prophecies were stored in tiny glass orbs, and she'd regaled them with tales of known prophecies that had come true. Imagine how handy that would be! If he had the gift of prescience, he could rearrange his life to make things go in the smoothest possible path, avoiding the inevitable bumps and hardships that most people had to endure.

Today they'd moved on to palm reading, which he proclaimed in a whisper to Mulciber to be nearly as inane as the teacup debacle, yet his intent gaze never wavered as the teacher moved from one student to another examining their hands and offering perfunctory tidbits of wisdom.

Professor Katz, holding a student's hand in her own, stroked the open palm with one long, bony finger. "Miss Fraser, I see a long life for you." She paused, pursing her lips, then chuckled to herself. "It's a good thing, too, as it appears you will be married more than once."

The rest of the students oohed and tittered, and Miss Fraser blushed. Tom rolled his eyes, averting his face from the teacher for the first time. No one could prove or disprove whatever the teacher was saying now, so she was free to spout whatever she liked. When were they going to get on to something useful?

"Mr. Riddle, how about you?"

Caught off guard, Tom whipped his head round toward the teacher. "Me? No, that's alright, thank you."

Obviously it wasn't a question, for the wizened woman mounted the steps with the agility of a mountain goat to where he sat, and held out her hand expectantly. Reluctantly he put forth his own, cognizant of all eyes upon him. For some curious reason he liked the sensation of being the center of attention, and that knowledge vaguely startled him.

Professor Katz bent over his palm, and Tom got a strong whiff of her perfume, a cloying scent of lavender that choked his nostrils. He tried to swivel his head to get fresh air, but couldn't make himself turn away, as though moving would break the spell and cause his fortunes to crumble. In the interminable seconds that she studied him, he dreamed of predictions of glory, of wonderful things on the horizon for him.

"This is the most unusual life line I've ever seen," murmured Katz to no one in particular. Many of the other students had craned their necks or gotten out of their seats by now to watch. She lifted Tom's palm slightly, indicating for the class. "Can you see the double helix here, rather than a firm line? It's almost as though Tom is to lead two lives that intertwine."

"Maybe he's gonna be a spy," laughed a boy off to Tom's right.

"Or a circus clown," snickered a muggleborn to his left.

The instructor shook her head vehemently, not to discourage their silly guesses, but to dispute their accuracy. "No, look here. The line isn't solid, as if it were one life. It breaks, but the helical pattern holds it together just barely until it becomes firm again." She tilted her head, and her scarf obligingly swung to the other side. "Most remarkable."

She let go of Tom's hand and stood up straight, or as straight as a woman of her advanced age could get. "For your homework, I want you to read chapter three in your _Forecast, __Foreshadow,__ and __Foreknowledge_ text. Class dismissed."

Chattering as children are wont to do, the class got up and pounded down the tiered platform to file out the door. Mulciber, although on the highest level, had managed to shove his way to the front and make it out second in line. Tom waited at the top level, seated at his tiny table, peering at the teacher, who'd gone to her desk and fished out a crystal ball from one of the large drawers. He wanted to watch her use it, for this seemed like an object with true power, one that showed pictures that none could dispute.

He sat motionless as she set it reverently on a specially made golden tripod already on her desk; he felt oddly compelled to see what she saw, and strained his neck forward. Katz waved a hand over the ball; it went murky with a white mist swirling inside, then cleared. Almost immediately pictures formed, though from his vantage point he couldn't make out what they were. Whatever she was reacting to apparently stunned her; her face paled, her mouth dropped open ever so slightly, and she looked frozen. Another observer might have suggested she looked terrified.

All at once she snatched the ball and thrust it back into her desk and shut the drawer, locking it with a click. She lifted her head, and for the first time seemed aware that Tom was still in the room. All the rest had long gone. She stared at him with an expression of sheer horror before saying in a strained tone, "Mr. Riddle, don't you have another class?"

"No, ma'am," he answered. When she said nothing more, he took the hint and walked down the steps. Pausing at the door, he said casually, "What did you see?"

Professor Katz affected a smile so patently fake it could be detected a mile away. "Nothing important. Run along now."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_October 7, 1938_

_ Yesterday in Divinations class we began palm reading. It's a bunch of hooey in my opinion, yet I'm drawn to it nevertheless. Professor Katz said I have a very unusual life line—not surprising, since I am most unusual. In a good way, naturally. I'm more clever than most, and certainly more magically talented than anyone of my age that I've seen. Or any other age, to be honest._

_ I thought it queer when the professor took out her crystal ball as soon as she believed the class had left. She didn't want us to see, and that made me want to see all the more. Surely in a class such as this we will learn to use one as well, unless they say it's only for the older students, not second years like me._

_ Hard to say what will happen now, though. Professor Katz up and quit her post unexpectedly and left the castle. From what I've heard, she didn't give any reason, and rumour has it she was headed to Australia. Just goes to show Divinations teachers are unstable, like everyone says. I guess she wasn't that good anyway. She claimed you can't alter the future, regardless of events that are foreseen. How ridiculous! Of course things will turn out differently if you change your flow of events. What a charlatan!_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 1, 2001 **

Greyback broke through the brush at the edge of the wood and entered the clearing surrounded by trees, then just stood there for a long minute. It was empty, as he'd sort of thought it might be. A coating of undisturbed snow blanketed the area. He lifted his chin and began to sniff the air, moved downwind and sniffed again. Nothing. If the pack had been here recently, he'd be able to pick up their scents. How long had they been gone? _Where_ had they gone? There was someone who ought to know…

He turned on the spot and apparated away, only to reappear next to a lonesome cabin in the middle of nowhere. He didn't knock, he didn't even approach the tiny house, he simply waited; sure enough, within moments a disheveled, grizzled old fellow opened the door and stepped outside, letting his eyes adjust to the light. His clothing was ragged and torn, and hung loose on his body. His hair, like that of Greyback, was matted and ill-kempt.

"Fenrir. I didn't think you'd come back here." His voice, thick and raspy, sounded like sandpaper sliding across a brick.

"Got nowhere else to go at the moment," replied Greyback, inclining his head slightly at the older man in a rare show of respect. "Besides, the Ministry doesn't know about you. I present no danger to you."

"I know that. Come in," invited the other, holding the door wide. He let Greyback pass, then followed him in and closed the door. They sat across from each other at a rough hewn table in what must be the kitchen, though the cabin had but one room and the unmade bed was clearly visible only feet away. "I heard you'd escaped. What took you so long?"

"Security is tough there, you know," Greyback rejoined, sounding almost injured. "Where is my pack?"

The old man shook his head, shrugged, and took a sip from a chipped cup. "Haven't seen 'em in close onto two years. They'd been yappin' about killing vampires for a couple of months, somethin' about Voldemort." He raised a thick, hairy brow in question.

"Voldemort tried to form an alliance with the vampires in Spain, who refused him. That's why he came to me." In a gesture remarkably similar to the old man, Greyback shrugged.

"Anyway, the cubs wanted to kill vampires 'cause you made them into werewolves. I suppose because you wouldn't 'ave done it if Voldemort hadn't recruited you when the vampires turned the dark lord down." Again the man twisted his face and shrugged, as if he couldn't comprehend why anyone wouldn't want to be a werewolf.

"Stupid brats," Greyback muttered. He got up to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the wood stove. "So what? They went to Spain?"

"I don't know. All I heard is that the Ministry recently turned up with six werewolf cubs that they parceled out to whoever would take 'em—cubs that claimed _you_ changed 'em."

Greyback's eyes grew wide, his breath caught in his throat. "Did you hear their names?"

The old man sighed. "No. I can't read, Fenrir, in case you forgot. I rely on what rabble in Knockturn Alley say. And that's all I know of it."

Greyback leaned back in his chair, pondering. Six of his pack were in England, somewhere. He needed to find out who had them so he could retrieve them; he'd spent too much time in training them to let it go now. And where were the rest? He swore under his breath. Perhaps when he'd recovered the six, he'd find out from them where the others had gone. For now, he just wanted to rest.

"I need to sleep. That okay with you?"

"I'm not usin' the bed at the moment," answered the other. He waved a dirty hand in the direction of the far end of the room. "It's kinda nice to have you home, boy."

Home…the only home Fenrir had known since being thrown out of his family all those years ago. The one place he could come no matter what, the one place where he was understood completely. He stumbled across the room to flop onto the bed. It was so soft compared to that damnable straw pallet in Azkaban, and so warm…he'd sort of missed it here.

"Thanks, Pa. It's good to be back."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The thin layer of snow covering the slope behind the Malfoys' pond used to be beautiful, smooth and undisturbed like a white mantle enveloping the hill. Now, with Lucius and his two toddlers playing sledding and snowballs, the area looked more like a battlefield. On his knees to make it fair, the man lobbed handfuls of unpacked snow at the children, and they squealed in delight as the cold flakes toppled over them. Their wee fists loaded with snow, they approached so near Lucius could have swatted them like flies, and they returned fire as Lucius obligingly laughed at their pitiful attempts, if not at the miserable wetness spreading across his chest and face, and hanging in globs from the strands of blond hair that had fallen from its binding.

"Fa'er, look!" Ladon shouted, pointing behind him.

Lucius hesitated, tempted to twist round but wary that the child was luring him into a trap, only to ambush him when his back was turned. The manor and the grounds were well-warded, making it extremely difficult for an intruder to enter. He smirked proudly at the tot. "Good try, son."

Ladon rushed at the wizard, then right past him, shrieking, "Unco Sev'rus!"

Khala echoed her brother, smiling broadly and showing all of the eight teeth in her mouth. "Unco Sev'us!"

Lucius whirled in time to see Ladon scooped into Severus' arms, as Khala tripped over her feet and sprawled in the snow with an 'umph'. He got up to lift her, but she'd already righted herself and leapt at Snape, who welcomed her in his free arm while gracing his best friend with a sneer.

"Well done, Lucius. I could have killed you three times before you decided to turn around." His sneer morphed into a light frown. "You can't be too careful; haven't all those years in our former occupation taught you anything?"

"Hello, Severus. Always a pleasure to see you. If you've come to reminisce on our common past, I'd like to respectfully decline." Lucius drawled, coming near to pluck Ladon from the other man's arms. It didn't seem fair to make him hold both children, which tended to get heavy very quickly.

The boy wiggled fiercely till his father put him on the ground, where he scooped up a large parcel of snow in his gloved hand and tossed it at Severus. It struck his chest and Khala's well bundled legs, but he seemed pleased with his endeavor nonetheless. "Wanna play, Unco Sev'rus?"

Severus merely brushed the remnants off his heavy black cloak. "Perhaps later, little one," he said, his voice oozing calm that contradicted the alarm in his eyes. "Lucius, I must speak with you."

"Ladon, remember how I showed you to make a snowman?" Lucius asked, bending over his son. The tyke nodded enthusiastically. "Take your sister over there and show her how. I'll join you in a moment, I need to talk to Uncle Severus."

"'Kay." Ladon took his sister's hand when Snape set her down, and they ran off a short distance. The men watched the tiny boy authoritatively demonstrating to his sister how to make the bum of a snowman, and Khala laughing as she pushed at the ball of snow with him.

"What's wrong, Severus?" asked Lucius suddenly, spinning to his friend.

"Did you read the _Daily__ Prophet_ today?" As Snape spoke, he produced a copy of the newspaper from his robes. On the front page, mug shots of Greyback snarled menacingly at the populace.

"Since I read it every day, it stands to reason I did so today as well," answered Malfoy.

"You seem remarkably unconcerned," commented the other.

Lucius shrugged, his attentive gaze straying to his children. "What have I to be concerned about? Prisoners routinely escape from Azkaban, as you're well aware. I presume that is the article to which you refer."

"Of course it is!" Severus barked, grasping his arm and spinning him round. "Aren't you in the least bit worried that Greyback may come looking for the pack he created? Marcus is one of them, lest you forget."

Lucius shook the hand off his arm, then straightened up, brushing down his coat. "Marcus won't be here much longer. As we speak, he is with the Tanassovs in Bulgaria, and I highly doubt Greyback is skilled enough or clever enough to find his way there, break into the castle, and overpower not only Tanassov, but Luna-the-Mother-Bear as well. And I'm not even counting those bizarre, hairy little servant creatures that would kill on sight if they thought someone posed a danger to Tanassov or one of his own. So no, Severus, I'm not particularly worried."

"I see. And what of the time Marcus spends here?" asked Snape.

Lucius' eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Are you implying I am not capable of taking care of my own so—of Marcus?" he demanded, taking a step forward, his voice barely controlled from quavering. "You are familiar with me after all these years, aren't you? If Greyback stepped a paw near me or Marcus or any of my loved ones, I would slaughter him where he stood. As would Narcissa. And Sisidy, and Cinchona. Or even Mateo, if it comes to that." He took a deep breath, allowing it to fill his lungs and calm his spirit before continuing. "Marcus is in no danger, I assure you."

"I'm glad to hear it," Severus rejoined, not in any manner meaning to be sarcastic, though it tended to come out that way from habit.

Lucius nodded distractedly. He was accustomed to Snape's attitude, and read it as intended. Now that he'd got to thinking about it, what of Roger and Brooke, the children returned to muggle families? They had no one to shield them, and he'd hardly hold his breath waiting for the Ministry to step up and do something useful. "Have you warned the other families?"

Severus shook his head, his hair sashaying back and forth like black curtains swaying in the breeze. "No. There's nothing I can do short of telling them to move to a distant location immediately. The Ministry likely will not offer protection. And though it pains me to say it, someone probably ought to speak with Potter about the siblings, and with Dolph."

"Dolph?" asked Lucius, his brows dipping. "What's he got to do with it?"

For the first time in a very long time, Lucius saw genuine surprise on Snape's face, combined with what he recognized as a hint of guilt. No, not guilt…but that subtle look Severus used to get when he worked for the dark lord and Dumbledore at once, back before Lucius had been made privy to that revelation. Over the years he'd noticed that same odd expression from time to time, yet only after the fact of Snape's duplicity had been made public had Lucius connected 'the look' to Snape withholding information.

Was Severus blushing? No, must be the cold getting to him, painting his cheeks a healthy pink so unnatural for him. "I assumed you knew, being his brother-in-law and all," he clipped, squaring his shoulders, which only served to emphasize his thin frame. "Some time last month Timothy showed up at his door asking for refuge, and Dolph granted it."

Gobsmacked, Lucius gaped for several seconds. This was a joke, right? Dolph, pureblood supremacist, muggle hater—hell, muggle _murderer_—had agreed to take in a stray muggle w_erewolf_? Should he laugh? Snape wasn't even smirking, as he usually did when making one of his asinine jokes. Feeling faint from forgetting to breathe, Lucius gulped in air, then murmured, "Come again?" What he really wanted to say was, '_Why __would__ he__ tell__ you __and __not__ me? __He__ doesn__'__t __even __like __you!__'_

"He had to inform me so I could make the Wolfsbane," Severus said, as if reading his mind. "I don't get it, either, but Timothy seems happy there."

Lucius had already started in the direction of Ladon and Khala, and his words rang behind him, drifting to Snape's ears. "I'll go visit him once I've got the children settled. You'll need to go see Potter and Black, make sure they get it through their pea brains that Charlotte and Henry need protection. You might want to teach them the werewolf slaying curse the dark lord created."

"Why me?" Severus wailed—or so it sounded to his friend, at any rate. But of course it wasn't, because Snape did not wail. Ever. He scurried through the slush to catch up as Lucius reached the children, who proudly displayed their lopsided ball passing for a snowman, then threw themselves down to make snow angels.

"Lookee, Fa'er," Ladon grinned, swinging his limbs mightily. "A nan-gel."

"I, too!" Khala piped up, her one-year-old arms and legs flailing in a less than coordinated manner.

"Wonderful, son. How lovely, Khala, my princess. You two are the most clever children in all of England." Lucius, once more kneeling in the snow, glanced up at Severus as he said, his words dripping with contempt, "You've witnessed the 'competence' of the Ministry up to this point. Any suggestion we make will be met with hostility, skepticism, and antagonism. And I can hardly waltz up to Potter's door and take the matter in hand myself. Whereas Potter and Black both despise me, I doubt I'd get a word in before the door was slammed in my face. You, on the other hand, helped save Potter's exceptionally lucky arse numerous times; he actually _likes_ you now." Lucius made a strange, bemused face.

"You make that sound like something incomprehensible. 'He actually _likes_ you now'," Severus mimicked in a fair rendition of Lucius' voice, complete with a mocking flip of his hair over the shoulder, albeit with added pinching of his lips and scowling.

"Are you insinuating that you are, indeed, affable?" asked Lucius with a telling smirk. "Perhaps genial? Cuddly, even?"

"No!" Snape growled back, baring his teeth at the horror of a thought. He stopped short, backtracking in his mind. Determining that to continue this line of conversation would only make him look bad—or good, as the case may be, and he certainly wasn't up for defending Potter for not despising him anymore—he snapped, "Oh, shut up."

"Just do it," Lucius ordered, getting to his feet. "Charlotte and Henry are counting on you. I know that means something to you."

"Blackmailing prig," Severus muttered under his breath.

"Sticks and stones, Severus. Sticks and stones." Lucius plucked Khala up from the ground. "Time to go in the house, my darlings. Mama should be home soon."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Mr. Goodman, the food is put away, I've packaged a portion and put it in the freezer, and the kitchen is cleaned up. Is there anything else you need before I go?" asked Ophelia. She took off her apron, folded it, and let it hang over her clasped hands while she waited.

"No, I can't think of anything," answered Dolph, glancing up from the book on dark creatures that he was reading on the sofa. "Before I forget, your salary has been deposited into your Gringotts account, as agreed. We'll see you tomorrow then."

"Thank you, sir. Goodnight," she replied, then turned her attention to Tim, sitting next to the fire and staring into the flames. "Goodnight, Timothy."

"Goodnight, Ophelia," he said, waving. "Are you going to see Mr. Marshal?"

Ophelia's cheeks glowed red; she dipped her head and chewed her lower lip like a teenager caught in the closet with her beau. "Yes. He's taking me to a nice restaurant."

"But you cook so good, why doesn't he—"

"Timothy, leave the woman alone," Dolph interrupted, shaking his head in that exasperated way adults have when discussing children. "Goodnight, Ophelia."

She winked at the lad as she said, "You'll understand when you get older. Have a good evening with your dad."

Tim looked up at her, cast a furtive glance at Dolph, and back to the witch. "Yeah, thanks. See you." He waited till she'd gone out the door and it closed with a quiet click behind her, then shifted his body halfway round to face Dolph. "Mr. Goodman?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do Mr. Ulysses and Ophelia think I'm your son?"

"Because I told them you are," said Dolph, peering over the top of his book. "They'd wonder what you were doing here otherwise, don't you think?"

"Yes, sir." It made sense, the boy supposed. Why would he be here if he weren't related? Unless Mr. Goodman was a pervert or something, which he definitely was not. Still, he persisted in his dogged line of questioning. "I can't call you Mr. Goodman in front of them. What should I say?"

There was a surprisingly short pause before Dolph shrugged and replied, "Call me Dad."

"That won't bother you?"

"Why would it? I take care of you, clothe you, feed you, educate you. Isn't that what a parent does?"

It was Tim's turn to hesitate. He honestly didn't know how a good parent acted, since he'd never had one. His mum certainly didn't fit the criteria, nor Greyback, and he'd had no other male figure in his life. "I guess." He flushed, and hated himself for doing so. "It's just…I'm not magical. They think I'm a squib, but I'm not even that."

Dolph set the book on the coffee table in order to study the kid perched on the brick hearth by the fire. Until now, he'd told people Timothy was his son because it was convenient to do so. He hadn't ever let himself even consider that he might harbour some smidgen of feeling for the urchin. And yet, why shouldn't he? It wasn't like Timothy was some ordinary, pitiful muggle; he'd had the fortitude and strength to walk halfway across England alone, found a wizard's home with no knowledge of the place, and according to Mr. Ulysses he was exceptionally bright. On top of that, he saw in Dolph qualities he didn't recognize in himself—being _nice_, for instance. Alright, maybe that was stretching it, but all told, this child exhibited more positive features than a lot of wizards he'd known in his life. He'd never had a child, nor ever wanted one, but now that he had one, he couldn't say he was disappointed in the boy.

He cleared his throat. "Do you want to be my son?"

His voice choked with emotion, Tim responded softly, "Yes."

"Then what are you arguing about?" Dolph picked up his book and opened it to the spot where he'd left off reading.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"No, I hadn't heard. I don't read the paper as often as I should," Dolph said, fingering the wand in his pocket. He leaned back heavily against the sofa, his mind in tumult, his respiration labored.

Greyback had escaped. In anyone's book, that was bad news. Dolph had little fear of the big, stench-ridden dog, aside from the obvious fact that Greyback could tear him limb from limb—or worse, make him a werewolf! For all he knew, it had been Greyback who'd clawed his foot nearly off all those years ago, leaving him with scars that never fully healed and throbbing pain that returned on occasion. A flash of self-reproach flitted through his mind. Timothy was helpless against the beast, and Timothy _was_ a werewolf, all thanks to that bastard Greyback! Yet another reason to despise him.

Tim, who'd skulked down the stairs when he heard a heavy rapping at the door (which he deduced to be Mr. Malfoy's pimp cane when he caught sight of the blond wizard), gasped at the revelation. Two pairs of eyes shot through him, and he started to run back up the steps when Dolph's voice made him halt in place.

"Come down, Timothy. You ought to hear this." He gave a weak smile. "Then again, you probably already did."

Tim stumbled down the remaining steps and into the living room, where Mr. Malfoy sat in the chair closest to the fire and Mr. Goodman—Dad—still sat on the couch where he'd been when Tim went upstairs. "Hi, Mr. Malfoy," he mumbled.

"Hello, Timothy," said Lucius, inspecting the boy up and down. He appeared healthy, he'd gained a bit of weight since the last time he'd seen the scrawny kid. Frankly, he was stunned that he looked so good with Dolph in charge. "You've heard?"

"Yes, sir. Greyback escaped." He edged toward the fire, for he'd forgotten to put on a robe and the chill in the air was getting to him. "Is he gonna come for me?"

"No!" said Dolph more forcefully than necessary. "He doesn't know where you are. And I'd kill him if he showed up here."

The acknowledgement both confused and pleased Tim. Was Mr—was Dad saying that he'd protect himself, or he'd protect his fake son? While he'd prefer the latter, he dared not make too many inferences. "What about Charlotte? She's the only grown up girl left. Though I guess he could make more…"

"What are you talking about?" asked Dolph.

Tim shrugged one shoulder as he slumped to the floor on the rug in front of the fire, careful not to block Mr. Malfoy's heat. "On full moons he used to like staying with us so he could have sex with the girls as werewolves."

Repulsion colouring his features, Lucius wrinkled his nose. "All of them? Even the little ones?"

"No…just the ones who smelled like adults." He glanced up at the two men, who were both looking back at him in a peculiar way. "Everybody has their own scent, and when you grow up it changes. Brooke is too young, she still smells like a kid. Charlotte's different."

"I believe he means menstruation," Lucius filled in.

"Yeah, I got that," Dolph shot back. He didn't want to ask, he didn't want to know. Oh, hell yes, he _did_ want to know, and if he found out that Greyback had done the same to Timothy, he'd hunt him down and torture him for days before murdering him! He mentally pulled himself back, fire dancing in his eyes. He surprised himself; he hadn't anticipated such a strong reaction.

"Are you okay, Dad?" asked Tim, noticing the pale face, the grim hatred crossing the wizard's countenance. He failed to see Lucius quirk an eyebrow at the word 'Dad'.

"Timothy, did Greyback ever abuse you?" Dolph said in a cool, composed tone that belied the fury raging in his veins.

The lad shrugged. "He used to hit all of us if we disobeyed or didn't move fast enough. He never broke my bones or anything."

"He means did Greyback ever molest you?" Lucius chimed in, ignoring the evil glare coming from Dolph. "Did he have sex with you?"

No," said Tim, confused. Then his eyes widened a touch as understanding hit. "But a few times he raped older boys when they challenged his authority. He said _he_ was the boss, and they'd better not forget it."

Dolph and Lucius exchanged appalled, sickened glances. Greyback had made sure his pack understood that he was the Alpha male; that didn't shock them, though it certainly disgusted them. They further recognized a deeper level of meaning: the filthy werewolf wasn't going to let go of something he saw as belonging to him. It was almost a foregone conclusion that he'd search for the pack he'd established.

"Marcus is well protected. I'll let Severus know about Charlotte so he can counsel her," said Lucius. He winced inwardly; Snape would just love him for that most awkward and uncomfortable added responsibility. "In the meantime, I suggest you take every measure available to keep Greyback out."

"I'm not an idiot, Lucius. I've got wards on the floo and house." It wouldn't hurt to add a few more, although he truly did not anticipate the werewolf leader being able to find either him or Timothy. Nonetheless, he hadn't lived this long by being careless.

"What about Brooke and Roger?" asked Tim, looking worried. "They don't have wizards to fight for them."

"I'll ask Snape to send Potter to the Ministry. Maybe they'll relocate them," said Lucius. If not, he could move them to one of his properties to live, somewhere that Greyback would never find. He sighed. Damn that werewolf! He'd never been anything but trouble.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I hate you, Lucius," Severus muttered as he apparated onto the doorstep of Grimmauld Place.

It didn't matter that Malfoy had a point, that Potter and Black would never listen to him about anything unless someone hogtied them and stopped up their mouths to keep them from spouting stupidity. His eyes twinkled a tad and a smiled tugged at the corners of his mouth. He could arrange that. Just as quickly, the joy faded with the realization that pipe dreams had no place in the real world. He was stuck delivering unsolicited advice to two of the most thickheaded individuals ever to have graced his path—and given the caliber of most of his students over the years, and many of his colleagues, that was saying something. And to top it off, Malfoy had been kind enough to drop the bomb in his lap that Charlotte had been used as a plaything by Greyback, and probably ought to receive some form of counseling. What did he look like, Florence blooming Nightingale? Was she even a counselor? No…bad comparison.

He grunted softly, lifted his fist, and pounded roughly at the door. Oh well, not home. Damn it, the door was creaking open. Kreacher peeped out at him, then his face cracked into a wide grin.

"Mister Headmaster Snape! Come in, come in," the elf insisted, shooing the man into the foyer and slamming the door behind him. He rubbed his bony hands together in glee as he said, "Evil Master Sirius will be so upset to see you. Let me go get him." Before Severus could get a syllable out, the elf had popped out.

_I__ hate__ you,__ Lucius.__ Hatey__ou__hate__you__hate__you_. Severus walked down the hallway into the least depressing of the non-kitchen rooms. He entered a dreary parlor whose long, heavy, dark drapes covered the windows so thoroughly one would be hard pressed to determine night or day. Despite the cleanliness of the place, it still felt like a tomb…rather like Spinner's End had before Aline and Narcissa redid the house. Perhaps he could suggest the occupants contact the aforementioned for assistance.

"What are you doing here, Snape?"

Severus turned slowly to the figure standing in the doorway. Typical cocky Black, leaning there with his arms crossed like he owned the place…perhaps because he did. Hells bells, what was happening to his mind? First he couldn't create a decent metaphor, and now this? Grudgingly letting the other wizard's attitude slide without comment, he said, "Is Potter here? I should like to address you both, as it concerns Charlotte and Henry."

"What about them?"

"What part of 'both of you' is tripping you up?" Snape retorted. He settled into an ancient, overstuffed sofa that had seen better centuries, crossed his legs, and waited.

Heaving a martyrish sigh, Sirius left the room in search of Harry. He returned a few minutes later, to find Snape sipping on a yellow drink in a fluted glass, topped by an umbrella. He hadn't even known they possessed such glasses, let alone that Kreacher understood how to mix muggle cocktails. The elf certainly never offered such information.

"Hello, Professor," said Harry, sidling up almost close enough to shake Snape's hand before deciding it probably wasn't a welcome gesture and sat down on a chair close by. "I assume this isn't a social call. Sirius tells me you've got something to discuss."

"In point of fact, I do," Snape confirmed. He felt quite pleased with himself that he'd refrained from mentioning that it couldn't possibly be a social call since he'd explicitly told Black otherwise, and that he was delighted Potter had figured it out all by himself…more or less. "I hope I'm not overestimating your intelligence to assume you are aware of Greyback's escape from Azkaban."

Harry nodded, though in the back of his mind he wasn't sure if he ought to be offended or flattered at the remark. With Snape, it was never easy to tell, unless he was hurtling jars of cockroaches at you, or screaming like a banshee, or shooting curses. "We heard, yes."

Severus turned his head toward Sirius, who had declined to sit, and was perched in the doorway again like a gargoyle guarding the entry. "Have you strengthened your wards and made sure the children are aware of the danger?"

"We didn't want to freak them out, Cassandra," Sirius replied dryly.

There it went, the lip began to curl into a familiar Snape sneer. What a f—king idiot Black was! "By virtue of your calling me 'Cassandra', who correctly prophesied ill tidings though no one believed her, you illustrate perfectly the accuracy of my position. Greyback will come for the children. It's who he is."

"You should know, having been his buddy and all," Sirius replied, staring at his nemesis. It bothered him slightly that Snape refused to respond with so much as a muscle twinge. He just stared back with those dead black eyes. It wasn't much fun to insult someone who wouldn't get riled.

"Sirius, quit it," Harry interjected. Hadn't the two of them had enough of going at one another in school? Did they need to keep it up forever? "Professor Snape is trying to help."

"Except we don't need his help," said Sirius. "I'm capable of warding the property without him staring over his beak nose while I do it. I'm sick of him acting like he's superior."

"If the shoe fits," Severus murmured, loudly enough for Sirius to hear. He spun back to Harry. "Mr. Potter, I'd like to teach you a spell that kills werewolves, though it must strike the heart. _Avada __kedavra_ is ineffective against them. " He highly doubted Potter could muster the hatred necessary to use that curse anyway. The dog, on the other hand, would probably excel at the Unforgivables. "We also need to talk to Charlotte. I am given to understand she was molested by Greyback, along with the rest of the older girls in the pack."

Had the subject not been so appalling, Severus might have found some humour in the slackjawed faces gawping at him. As it stood, he felt a sort of…*gag*…kinship with them in their disgust. If Black or Potter wanted to know from whom he'd learn this tidbit, he could always cite Marcus, or one of the others aside from Tim. Meanwhile, he had a job to do, and he'd like to get it over with so he could leave this hellhole. From the evidence, it wouldn't take much to convince Potter to visit the Minister of Magic and ask him to relocate the other two children. Maybe while Potter was at it he could ask for references for a trained counselor…


	76. The Young and the Restless

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 76 (The Young and the Restless)

**March 2, 2001**

Therese lifted her head from the diary, her eyes still unfocused and bleary from hours of reading. No matter how much she hated Tom Riddle, she couldn't stop herself from reading his blasted diary, and the very thought irritated her no end. He'd not made his presence felt for over two days now, and even then it had been only in her mind, not speaking out loud. Whether he was gone, or merely hiding to pop out at her later remained to be seen. She wished she had someone she could discuss it with, but who could possibly understand what was running through her mind? Madam Pomfrey would think her mad. Who wouldn't?

"Hello, Therese." Severus stepped barely inside the doorway. He gave a single satisfied nod at the fact that she was presently hunched over Riddle's diary, for that could only serve to make her stronger, and Tom weaker.

"Don't come in," she answered, standing up and moving back against the wall. "Madam Pomfrey said I might get sick from other people."

"You needn't worry about me, I am disease free," he said in what to most students would sound like an oddly reassuring tone. Everyone knew Snape was mean and nasty, not reassuring. "I need to speak with you."

Therese lowered herself onto the bed, one leg drawn up under her bum. Instinctively she pulled the diary closer to herself until it was hidden under her skirt. "About what?"

"About the book you have shoved under your robes," he answered. He took a few steps to cross the room and seat himself on the lone chair near the window, far from Therese. He turned toward her, his face impassive. "Where did you find it?"

"In a broom closet," she said, her brows furrowing. What did that have to do with anything? Did it belong to the Headmaster? But no, it was Tom Riddle's, not Severus Snape's. When he said no more, and his black eyes pressed so hard on her it felt like they might go right through her, her mouth began as if of its own volition. "I was hiding from some bigger kids and I jumped in a broom closet. I tripped in the dark and fell. I'm sorry, I broke the wall. I would have told a teacher, but I didn't want to get in trouble," she wailed.

"Where is this closet? Were there any other books in there?" Severus asked in a low, level voice to avoid spooking her. Inside, his stomach leapt and his heart pounded.

"It's on the third floor, by the bathroom. But I only found this one, I didn't see any others. It was inside the wall." She peered up at the wizard, wondering if he was angry, yet his blank face exposed nothing.

"Therese, I know what it is." He watched her, examining her for reaction, and wasn't disappointed. Her eyes grew large as golf balls, and she shifted back slightly from him. "Tom Riddle wrote that diary when he was a student here. He's been trying to take over your body, hasn't he?" The question was unnecessary from his point of view, but since the girl had no way of knowing he'd been similarly afflicted, he had to play the game.

_Lie.__ Must__ lie_, the voice far back in her head prompted, and she recognized it as Tom. Out of spite she declared, "Yes, he has. He won't leave me alone!"

"Yet it's been getting better, hasn't it?" Snape went on.

She paused. "Yes….how do you know this?"

"It's my job to know," he drawled.

Like he was going to admit the same thing had happened to him? In what universe? The question remained—how much should he tell her? He hadn't actually intended to let her know anything, but it seemed somehow wrong. Once he'd grown strong enough to fight Voldemort, his friends had told him what they'd done to the diary, and how important it was to keep reading it. Didn't he owe this girl the same courtesy? What if she couldn't handle it? _Please,__ Snape,__ the__ girl__'__s__ had __freaking__ Tom__ Riddle__ in __her__ head __and__ survived.__ You__ think__ she__ can__'__t__ handle __some__ knowledge_?

He leaned forward in his chair until he was bent over his knees. "Therese, I appreciate the struggle you've endured, believe me. I'm also aware that you've managed to fight back, and you've won. Tom is nearly gone, despite the fact that you feel an overwhelming need to read the book." Having the Marauders Map which now named this child as Therese Hawbeckle didn't hurt. Sure, it wasn't _quite_ her name, though it was nearly there, and it proved she was now in control. "Unfortunately, it isn't over. You must continue reading this diary every day until such time as you no longer feel the compulsion to do so. Do you understand?"

"No…yes…I don't know," Therese replied, twiddling her fingers and looking at the bedspread. She raised her head to stare right at him. "How can you know what's been happening? And if you knew, why didn't you help me? And isn't the diary the problem?"

This was it, the moment of truth. In that instant, Severus made the decision that yes, Therese deserved to understand her fate, and the only way to do that was to tell the truth…or a version of it, at any rate.

Selecting his words ever so carefully—not a difficult thing to do after years of tiptoeing around Voldemort—Severus said, "There was another situation in the past where a person was manipulated by Tom Riddle's diaries. His takeover was more complete, more dangerous than yours because the books he read were from an older Tom Riddle. He became violent, he nearly killed his friends before he was subdued. Professor Dumbledore had the books enchanted with a spell that reverses the damage done to the brain, but it takes time. It involves reading the diaries which caused the problem to begin with. I realize it sounds counterintuitive."

Looking betrayed, Therese queried, "It happened before? Why did they leave the diaries laying around—"

"Wait," he commanded, putting up a hand. She silenced herself immediately. "Those diaries were found elsewhere, not at Hogwarts. No one was aware that any existed here. We have had individuals scour the castle for any remaining books; it is of the utmost importance that we make sure none remain."

"Why did he do this? Tom, I mean. How can he get into people's heads this way?"

"Strangely enough, it wasn't intentional," Severus answered. He'd had all the same questions, he couldn't blame her for needing answers. "He was a very powerful wizard, and he charmed the books for himself, that he might look back on his life through the visions you see when you read them." He hesitated, then blurted, "Do you know who Tom Riddle became?"

She shook her head. The name sounded familiar, but seeing as she'd been reading his diary for months, that was to be expected, wasn't it? Had she known the name before that? She didn't recall having heard it before.

"He became Voldemort."

Tears spilled form the girl's eyes and she threw herself face down onto the bed. "I don't wanna have Voldemort in my head!" she screamed.

"You don't," he said, approaching to sit on the bed beside her. A comforting hand hovered over her back, but he couldn't bring himself to use it. He clasped his hands on his lap. "The Tom in your diary is just an obnoxious little boy who hasn't turned wholly evil yet. And you've beaten him. Now you must simply keep reading to finish the cure, to make sure he is gone for good."

Therese wept for another minute; she grew quiet, and slowly sat up to face him, the tears still wet on her cheeks. A look of awed revelation crossed over her. "It was you. You're the one who found the other diaries, and that's why you know what's happening to me." A sob hitched in her throat, yet she didn't resume weeping.

He could deny it; he should deny it. Instead he found his traitorous mouth saying, "It was."

"And you're okay now," she went on, wiping the wetness from her face with the back of her sleeve. "That means I'll be okay, too, right?"

"Yes, that's what it means," he murmured. "As long as you continue to read the diary, you will continue to get better. I believe this also means I can allow you to resume classes with your peers, and let you go back to your dormitory."

"But the disease…" Therese stopped, and a smile edged over her as she shook her head. "It was a lie to get me away from the others, so I couldn't hurt them." She burst out laughing from relief and shock and joy, all mingled into a funny ball in her chest. "Thank you, Professor. Don't worry, I won't tell anybody about you—or me. I don't want anybody to know I have Voldemort's kid self in me."

"That is sincerely appreciated, young lady. Unless you have any other questions, I shall be off." He stood up to go.

"I do have one." She noted the teacher freeze in place, stiffened as if expecting something horrible. "Tom kept teasing me over something until I wanted to punch his face in, except it was my face. Do you think Jonathan Avery likes me?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 2, 2001**

Harry tapped his foot impatiently in the lift, which appeared to be stuck in place. This was a magical building, for crying out loud, and they couldn't manage to make it operate smoothly? He couldn't even apparate out, leaving him pacing inside until at last he felt a hard lurch and the elevator began to move once more. Relieved, he almost walked out onto the wrong floor when the door opened, and he probably would have if Xenophilius Lovegood hadn't shuffled in accompanied by another man with dark hair, fastened in long pigtails; in his hands, blocking his view, he carried a rather complicated-looking metal device.

"Why, Harry! Bless my soul," said Xenophilius, patting the youth on the back. "How are you, young man?"

"Fine, thanks. How about you?" Harry found it difficult to tear his eyes from the fellow standing with his face to the back of the lift, his pigtails twitching with every bump and sway.

"Fit as a fiddle," replied Luna's father. "Do you know my friend here? Harry, this is Doctor Peragro Locus."

Harry put out his hand, but the man simply continued gazing toward the back wall. "Nice to meet you, sir. What are you a doctor of?"

At that the bloke turned around and lowered the machine a tad so that his eyes barely peeked over the top; his gaze flicked back and forth before settling on Harry, and he registered a stunned expression as though he'd not been aware of whose presence he was in. "Harry Potter! Xenophilius, you didn't tell me you were so well acquainted," he chided his mate. He looked keenly at the young wizard; his eyes, one brown and one blue, pierced Harry in a most unsettling way. "Doctor is my given name, I'm afraid. My parents had a queer sense of humour. As you might imagine, I go by Peragro."

"Yes, I suppose I would, too. Or maybe Perry," Harry said. He pointed at the mechanical contraption now sequestered beneath the man's arm. "What's that?"

"Oh, I'm an inventor. I come to the patent office here regularly to make sure no one steals my ideas." Peragro held the machine in front of him; wires stuck out in various directions, routed back into the box through other holes. He turned a knob and the thing whirred and buzzed, then a loud noise of static filled the tiny lift. "Sometimes I hear voices."

_I__'__ll __bet__ you __do,_ Harry mused inwardly.

The fellow shook the box and smacked at another knob on the side. A high, earsplitting whine made them all cover their ears. "Sorry then. Anyway, I've just got a patent, but no name yet." All at once a voice in German cracked through the static. "There! See, I told you!"

"Isn't it fascinating, Harry?" asked Mr. Lovegood excitedly. "He'll need a catchy name to market it, though."

"Why don't you call it a _radio_?" asked Harry dryly, barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Seriously, wizards thought _they_ were the advanced ones?

"Ray…dee…o," repeated the man leisurely, rolling the syllables round in his mouth. "I like it. Perhaps you can help me name my inter-dimensional travel device."

"Does it work?" Harry inquired skeptically.

The man shrugged sheepishly. "I've sent things off…can't quite figure how to get them back yet."

"Is it a time machine?" Harry offered, plucking up a little curiosity.

"Heavens, no! What would I do with that?" Peragro fiddled with the knobs on his radio a bit more. "We've already got time turners, though they're rare and hard to come by. No, messing with time is dirty business."

_And__ messing__ with __dimensions __isn__'__t?_ "Well, that's nice," Harry said, edging to the door in anticipation of his floor. "It's a pleasure see you Mr. Lovegood, and meeting you Doctor…er…Peragro…Mr. Locus."

He nodded and ducked out to rush down the hall before he could get sucked into more inane conversation. He hurried down the corridor, acutely aware of people turning to stare at him, and of a particularly persistent fellow chasing him down for an autograph. He dashed into the Minister's suite, slammed the door, and looked up at the secretary. He gave a weak smile but she, instantly recognizing him, shooed him in through the doors to the Minister's inner office.

"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Minister," said Harry, panting a little as he approached the desk to shake Kingsley's hand. It felt good to get out of the lift and out of the public eye, where everyone stared at him constantly. It was exhausting, frankly, trying to be cordial to so many people he didn't know on a daily basis when all he wanted was to go about a normal life. "It's really important."

"Anything for the hero of the wizarding world," smiled Shacklebolt, settling back into his chair and swirling his multi-coloured cloak round his ankles and out of his way. "What can I do for you?"

"It's not for me, exactly," explained Harry with a little sigh. He wished Kingsley hadn't said that, it made him self-conscious. "Professor Snape came to see me last night." He thought he noticed a hint of disgust pass over the other bloke's face, though he couldn't be sure. Why would he feel that way about a man who'd done so much to get rid of Voldemort, who was every bit as much a hero as he himself was? "There was a lot he said about things that need to be taken care of, starting with those two werewolf children who were placed with their muggle families—Brooke and Roger."

"What about them?"

"He believes they're in danger from Greyback. And I agree with him." Harry paused, waiting for a snarky retort as he so often got from Sirius in such a situation. When none was forthcoming, he went on, "They've got no way to defend their children as I have, and as Headmaster Tanassov from Durmstrang has. We think you ought to relocate the families so that Greyback won't be able to find them."

Shacklebolt leaned back so far his chair creaked in protest. "What makes you—or Snape, for that matter—think Greyback has any interest in those children? He enjoys biting and torturing, he's more likely to try finding new prey. I have my aurors on high alert as it is."

"I'm sure you know Professor Snape is friends with Lucius Malfoy." There was that expression again, much pronounced this time with no attempt to hide it. "Malfoy knew Greyback, and he seems to believe there is reason to be cautious. Greyback won't readily give up something he thinks he owns, especially if that means his pack."

A snort rent the air. "Malfoy? Of course he's going to stir up trouble since I took Marcus away from him."

"That's something I don't fully understand, sir," Harry admitted, cocking his head. He didn't like Malfoy any more than Shacklebolt did, but the wizard obviously cared for the littlest werewolf. "Why were you so adamant to get Marcus from him?"

Kingsley's eyebrows knit together, and he stared at Harry like an unknown species. "He was a Death Eater, Harry. I don't believe it is something that can ever be changed. He should have gone to prison, if only for a short time. And do I even need to mention that he was a notorious muggle-hater all his life?" The black man's skin had flushed to a reddish brown, his voice rising. "What might he have planned for Marcus? Did he have some horrible ulterior motive, some awful plot to misuse the boy? We can't be certain. I don't trust Malfoy, Harry, and you shouldn't either."

"I don't. That's not the point. I saw him with Marcus, I saw how much Marcus loves him…and truth be told, it looked to me like Malfoy loves him, too." Harry's eyes had begun scanning the rug on the floor under the desk. The pattern reminded him of African prints he'd seen on one or two of Shacklebolt's robes. "But whatever the case, Roger and Brooke need your help. Can they count on you?"

Long pause. At last the Minister took a deep breath and let it out ever so slowly. As if in slow motion, he bobbed his head up and down. Lucius Malfoy had nothing to gain from relocating the children; Snape had nothing to gain, either, which meant the child werewolves may indeed be in danger. He'd already lost one boy…what was his name? Tim. The werewolf Tim had run off and disappeared from the grid, and as yet the aurors had found nary a clue as to his whereabouts. Kingsley shuddered as the new full moon approached, mortified that the child may strike and the Ministry would fall under fire once more.

"I'll see to it, Harry. You said you had other concerns?"

"Yes, it's about Charlotte. This isn't easy to say…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

A few days had passed since Neville had been fetched from the Amazon jungle by Sirius and had been taken to Aline's sister in Salem. After Sirius had gone—a prerequisite before any other action was taken, it seemed—Aline's brother had shown up to escort him to the place where his parents were living, a small, rustic house on Indian land in the States.

He'd been delighted, ecstatic, he'd even cried as he hugged them and told them who he was. And they'd been very kind about it, considering they hadn't a clue who this stranger might be, aside from what they'd been told by Alonzo. Neville was getting used to these odd people as they grew accustomed to him, and now that a semblance of trust had been established, it was time. He sat on the step outside in the bitter cold, head between his knees, gulping air lest he faint. In one hand he held a gilded frame with a very old moving photo, the one he'd kept with him all his life. This was important, he had to present it the right way.

The door opened a crack and Alice peeked out. Even through the slit, her resemblance to Neville was quite pronounced. "Neville, is everything alright? You'll catch your death out there in that cold."

"Yes, Mum, I'm fine." The words soaked into his brain the moment he said them, and a warmth washed over him. _Mum_. He was talking to his mother, and she was talking back; after several days, he still could hardly believe it, he anticipated waking up at any second. He twisted as he stood up to face her. "Is Dad up?"

"He's cooking breakfast," Alice said, shooing him into the house. The smell of sausage wafted in the air. "Frank, I found Neville."

"What are you doing out there?" asked the older wizard, waving the spatula. He rolled the sausages around in the pan.

"Thinking," said Neville softly.

"Don't hurt yourself," chuckled the man, turning back to the stove.

"Very funny," retorted Neville, grinning. He stroked the tiny photo of himself with his parents when he'd been a baby, when they knew who he was and loved him, then tucked it into his robes. _Tell__ them__ now._ "I want to go home…and I want you both to come with me."

Alice paused in setting the table. She looked first at Frank, then to Neville. The cheerful expression of earlier had flitted away. "We thought you'd mention that eventually. Aline and Lonny said we'd been kept in a hospital in England. We've decided we aren't going back there."

"We've gotten much better," Frank joined in, nodding along with his wife. "We don't recall anything of before…the incident." Even though he couldn't bring it into focus, it hung like a mysterious black weight in the back of his mind, and the very notion of what had occurred chilled him to the bone. "But we're doing fine now."

"At first we had some trouble, that's all," Alice jumped in again. "White Elk said he's never seen such a transformation."

Neville put up his hands in surrender, and the couple quieted. "I want you to live with me in the house where you used to live…the one I should've grown up in. There's plenty of room for separate bedrooms…you know, till you're ready." There was a wistful note in his voice. They'd been sleeping apart, seeing as they didn't recollect being married, nor anything else about each other. "And I'd like to ask a favour."

Frank pulled the pan from the flame and came over to the table with Alice and Neville. "What kind of favour?"

"Aline took a huge risk in kidnapping you from the hospital. Obviously I won't be pressing charges, and I don't believe you will either." He glanced from one to the other, just to make sure. Their expressions assured him, and he went on, "Would you be willing to allow healers to try to restore your memories? Please?"

"Sure, Neville—as long as I don't have to live in a mental ward," Alice answered, shaking her head sagely. "Those people are plain crazy."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I honestly don't want to go," Jacinta pleaded, hanging back at the door of the Nott estate. "They're your friends, why don't you go alone?"

"I insist, young lady! You're coming with me, and that's that!" Theo said in what amounted to his version of a stern voice. He'd heard enough of it from his own parents growing up, but not yet having children of his own to practice it on, it came off as fairly bland and very unauthoritative.

Jacinta pierced him with a Snape-glare that made him flinch, though he held his ground. Damn, he hated that glare. "And if I don't, what are you going to do?" she demanded. "You do not tell me what to do, Theo. Ever."

"Fair enough," Theo said, grinning at her. In a grand gesture he swept his hands down the length of his slender body proclaiming, "But if you refuse, you won't be getting any of this any time soon."

She burst out laughing. "Honey, I'm pretty sure that would hurt you just as much as—if not more than—me."

"And yet I'm willing to sacrifice myself," he answered. He took a step closer in order to wrap his arm round her waist and draw her to him. His hand snaked down to her bum and adjoining hotspots, and when she gasped in sheer pleasure, he growled, "You'll miss that, won't you?"

"Okay, okay," she panted, pulling away. Why did he have to have such breathtaking fingers! "That's not fair."

Theo rubbed her back in small circles as he spoke, his tone earnest yet firm. "Cinta, when we're wed I plan to keep my friends. That means we'll be invited to dinners and socials and so on. How will it appear if you make me go alone all the time? How will it make you look? We're a family: Draco is practically your cousin, and I know you don't want to stop seeing him. He's marrying Astoria, and Daphne is her sister. Our paths are going to cross."

She opened her mouth to protest that Blaise and Pansy weren't family, and she'd had all the crap she was going to take from either of them. The sincere, beseeching expression on his adorable face made her hold her peace. She could do this for him. If places were reversed, he'd do it for her. In fact, he already did with her two fathers, and he never made her feel bad or guilty for dragging him to Daddy's house, or to see Papa.

"Alright, Theo, I'll go, and I'll behave myself." She stroked his cheek softly and kissed the tip of his nose before going out the door. "Only because I love you."

"I love you more," he said, closing the door after them.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Here you go, Draco," said Jacinta, hoisting the sturdily built tyke with a square-ish head and a smattering of dark hair into the man's arms. "She's darling," she said to Pansy, who beamed. Out of the corner of her eye she noted Theo smiling gratefully at her.

"Aw, she's so…" Draco lifted the miniature Goyle, looked the three-week-old baby full in the face, and then laid her on his breast. Unable to complete the phrase he started, he rocked the child as he murmured, "She looks just like you, Goyle."

"Yeah, she does," Goyle concurred, smiling proudly. He wrapped a burly arm round his wife to pull her close. "We're so lucky."

Astoria stroked the tot's cheek with a finger, and laughed when Maya grabbed her finger in a tiny fist. "She's strong. I guess she gets that from you, Greg."

Draco glanced at the nearly-newborn snuffling on his shoulder. She was a good baby, didn't cry a lot—that was a fortunate thing. So she resembled her father more than a girl should (considering her father was a blockhead in more ways than one): was that necessarily bad? Hopefully she'd inherited Pansy's intelligence, so she wouldn't be totally out of luck.

"I'm really happy for both of you," Draco said, handing the child to Astoria, who smiled and happily accepted the bundle. Draco mused that although he presumed their own children would be beautiful, he had the reassurance that Astoria would love them no matter what. He snapped his fingers and a decorated bag flew from the foyer into his hand. "This is for Maya. My mother said babies love them." He handed the bag to Pansy, smirking to himself.

"Thanks, Draco. I wasn't asking for gifts when I invited you to come meet my daughter," Pansy demurred, though she ripped aside the paper on top and pulled out what seemed to be a fist-sized, plain black rubber ball. Her brows dipped slightly, then she said, "Thank you, it's lovely."

His interest piqued, Theo approached to get a better look. He knew immediately what it was, although he'd never seen one himself. "Draco, where'd you get this?"

"My father found it for me," Draco said casually. Lucius Malfoy could find anything given the time and motivation to do so, and it made his son proud.

"Oh, a ball!" Goyle squealed, which was vaguely disconcerting coming from a man of his size and bulk. He snatched it from his wife and tossed it into the air. It slapped the ceiling and dropped into his meaty paw. "Cool, Draco."

Chuckling along with Astoria, Draco took the ball from the big man. He held it in front of the baby, and to the Goyles' surprise her head turned toward it as though through some magnetic power. Grinning and drooling, she reached out a hand to bat it, and the ball fell to the floor. Maya gave a muffled discontented cry, and an instant later, it floated right back up to her, glowing a brilliant greenish blue. She squealed much like her father as she batted at it again.

"It's an Owner Ball," Draco explained. He noted Pansy's face change to a shocked smile, and rightly so. Owner Balls were extremely rare and very expensive when one could be found. Tailored to one child, and one alone, the balls were similar to a loyal pet; they could not be lost, for they always returned to their owners until such time the child decided he or she no longer wanted or needed the toy. At this point, it would typically be put in storage until a new child came along, or gifted to another baby.

"That's very generous, Draco. I don't know what to say," Pansy sputtered.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Gregory said, his eyes following the ball longingly.

"I get the feeling both Maya and her dad will enjoy it for a long time to come," Astoria said, her eyes twinkling. She handed the baby to Goyle, who set her on his lap, sitting up and braced against him as he watched the ball change colours and drift beside the girl.

"There you are! Hello, everyone. I've been wandering all around the house searching for you," came a voice from the doorway. Blaise Zabini strolled in, grinning.

"Right, Blaise. I'm sure you thought we'd be in the kitchen or the bedroom," Pansy retorted, leaning in for a hug. "Or maybe the loo."

"You never know," Blaise answered. He peered at the baby and her father playing with the toy. He'd met the child last week, no need to go overboard being solicitous to her. "An Owner Ball," he said softly, staring at the orb. "I've never seen one before." When he made to touch it, both Maya and Gregory slapped at his hand.

"Like father, like daughter," Draco said. "How are you, Blaise? It's been a while."

"I'm good. I got a job." Every head in the room, save for the baby, whirled toward him. Savoring the moment, he sauntered to the nearest chair and planted himself, crossing his long legs. Draco, Astoria, Theo, and Jacinta crowded onto the long sofa opposite the Goyles, all waiting to hear what Blaise had to say. "Don't look so astonished. Just because I don't have to work doesn't mean I don't want to. I am officially a first-level employee in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department at the Ministry of Magic."

Draco blanched a bit, his pale face becoming downright white. "You're working with Arthur Weasley?"

Jacinta broke in with, "Draco's dad hates him. You know that."

Blaise rolled his eyes dramatically. "He got promoted to Head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. Try to keep up, people. And for the record, this is great for all of us. I get to play with muggle stuff all day, and no one thinks anything of it. You all can come visit and I'll show you some awesome enchanted objects…or you can rummage around the shelves and I'll explain what things are." A self-important, smug smile graced his handsome features. "_And_ this job is a chick magnet. Go figure!"

"I don't know if I have time to go in before heading back to Bulgaria," Draco said, obviously disappointed. Despite his upbringing, he really did find muggle things fascinating at times.

"I've got a concert coming up in Australia," Astoria added, similarly disappointed. "And you still have to talk to Jorab Goodman about training to be a dragon veterinarian," she said to Draco.

"You're going to be a vet?" asked Pansy.

"I hope to. Once Astoria and I get married, I can't be off flying on dragons, but I can help take care of them when needed," Draco responded. "I'm not keen on being a vet for all animals, only dragons, and Goodman can train me—or at least direct me to someone who can."

Blaise interrupted with, "This is off topic, but where's Daphne?"

"She came by a while ago with what's-his-name," Gregory said. He went on to elucidate rather unnecessarily, "You know, Sirius Black, that bloke she's been datin'. He didn't even act like an arsehole. I think she's avoidin' Jacinta. She never liked her, especially after findin' out she's not pureblood." He hugged Pansy again, pleased with himself for his long speech, as she grimaced at his lack of tact. A sharp elbow to his side hadn't accomplished anything.

"That isn't why," Pansy hurried to add. "They just don't get on, but Daphne doesn't hate you."

_Not__ that __I__ care__ one __way __or __the __other_, Jacinta thought. "It's fine, Pansy. She can think whatever she wants. I tend to believe Sirius will have a great effect on her, and she'll come to see that muggles and halfbloods aren't so bad after all." She'd have broken into a full-blown rant on wizard prejudice had Theo not squeezed her hand so tightly she almost cried out.

"So, Pansy, where is this lunch you promised? I'm starved!" Theo stood up, extending a gentlemanly hand to his fiancée, as opposed to the crushing one seconds before.

Pansy got up, motioning for her husband to do the same. "Gregory, put her in her bassinet and bring it into the dining room. Everyone, if you'll follow me, we have roast duck, red potatoes…."

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**March 5, 2001**

Charlotte had slid so far down the leather sofa in the counselor's office that her head nearly reached the seat cushions. Arms crossed, legs propped on the coffee table, she pulled a face at the woman sitting opposite her, holding a quill and pad. "You're writing down what I say? What about confidentiality?"

"I take notes for my own reference," the witch assured her, which obviously the girl did not find reassuring. "No one else sees them."

"Unless you decide I'm crazy, and then you'll show everybody," retorted the muggle.

"Charlotte, we're not here to decide whether you're insane—and for the record, I have no reason to believe you are. Your guardians asked me to talk to you about Greyback." She paused, waiting for the young lady to go first.

"What about him?"

"Mr. Potter and Mr. Black surely told you what they know, what happened—"

"Why do you keep pussyfooting around? I had sex with Greyback, big deal!" Charlotte's arms gripped her ribs more tightly, and her lips pursed in a sullen pout.

"Molestation is a big deal, Charlotte," insisted the counselor. "We take it very seriously, and we want to help you work through it."

"Work through what?" bellowed Charlotte, sitting bolt upright. "All the girls did it, we wanted to do it. You don't get it!"

"Then explain it to me," said the woman softly.

Charlotte, her face pinched, shook her head. They sat in silence for some time until at last she said, "You're not a werewolf, are you?" As expected, the witch shook her head in a bemused fashion. "It's different when you change, when the animal takes over. You become wild, not yourself, and it's like a whole different world. Like a dream world, sort of. At least, I remember the nights as a werewolf almost like they were dreams."

"Good dreams or bad dreams?' inquired the counselor quietly, scratching something down on her parchment.

"Neither, just…unreal. The animal can't think as a person, so the images aren't as clear, the details are sketchy. I remember shagging Greyback, but not because he forced me. The beast in me wanted to do it. I fought other girls to be with him," said Charlotte matter-of-factly.

"And the knowledge of who he is when you're aware, when you're…"

"Human?" interrupted the teen. "You can say it. It's true."

"Alright, when you're human. It doesn't bother you to know you were intimate with a man like him?" said the counselor.

"I didn't have sex with the man, it was with the wolf," Charlotte repeated as if explaining to a moron. "It felt natural, and I don't think I should have to apologize for it. I didn't make myself a werewolf!"

"No one is asking for an apology," the woman said calmly, still writing as fast as her fingers would go. She leaned in toward the girl. "We're concerned that you may feel used or assaulted. We only want to help."

Charlotte heaved another sigh. "Why can't you believe what I'm telling you? Greyback never did anything to us girls that we didn't want him to do. How can I feel violated when my wolf self encouraged it, and I barely remember it? And from what I do remember, it was pretty good. He wasn't even interested in us when he was human. But if you're looking for some real gossip, I've got some: I shagged a couple of the boys in the pack after Greyback left us, and we were human at the time. And no—I'm not sorry and I don't want counseling, so can I leave now?"

Not waiting for a response, she got up, crossed the room, and walked out, leaving the counselor behind calling after her, then hunching over to scribble down notes.

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**March 6, 2001**

"Well, look at you!" Coming from anyone else to anyone else, it might have been a compliment. Instead, this tone was scornful, deriding as the elder werewolf studied Greyback in his newly stolen robes, his hair snipped short and still wet from a bath, his beard shaved off. "I spent all those years training you, protecting you, watching you thrive as I taught you, and this is how you end up?"

"Shut up, Pa," Greyback retorted lightly.

It wasn't as if he liked the look, either, but it was necessary. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd had a bath, though it was definitely in the very distant past—unless one counted the long swim from Azkaban, which frankly had made him smell like a wet dog. His customary, overwhelming odor (to put it delicately) would bring attention to him, give him away before he'd accomplished his mission. He couldn't chance that. He strode across the tiny cabin and seated himself heavily at the table, propping his elbows on the flat surface. If he wanted to get his pack back, he had to find out where they were, and the one who'd know the answer to that was the Minister of Magic himself, who'd apparently been in charge of doling the kids out to homes.

"You any good at disillusion charms?" he asked the older man.

"Not so much," confessed the other. "Never went to school, so I only learned what I needed to live. Why don't you use a glamour charm? That way you only need to change a few things and no one will recognize you."

"Good idea." After Greyback had been bitten at the age of fifteen, he'd dropped out of school, thereby missing a good chunk of his own education. But he did recall glamour charms, which had been popular in the dorms among the boys trying to find ways to look more attractive to the girls. "Change the hair to black, make the nose flatter, the jaw smaller. Oh, the teeth—need to round them out. That ought to do it, yeah?"

Pa scrutinized the new creation, grunted, and gave a single nod. While Fenrir excelled at combat skills with the wand, he had his doubts about the strength of his protégé's glamour spell, but even a weak glamour charm lasted for an hour or so unless deliberately taken off. "That should do. Good luck, boy."

"I don't need luck. All I need is five minutes with the Minister." He laughed, a hollow rasping bark, and the other man laughed with him.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Greyback paced the wire-bound lift restlessly. It reminded him too much of a cell, and he couldn't wait to get out. When he was done getting his information, the Minister would be begging for death—and he'd be happy to grant it with a quick slash across the throat with sharp fangs. He chortled to himself. This was going to be so much fun!

The lift came to a halt, the doors swung aside, and in came—of all people—Lucius Malfoy. Gritting his teeth, Greyback had to restrain himself from attacking on sight. That bastard had escaped Azkaban when all the rest of the Death Eaters had been imprisoned, along with Greyback and any other werewolves caught on the battlefield. If he killed him now, he'd deserve it. Lucius made no indication he even saw another person in the lift, he simply turned to face the doors and pressed a button, the ever-present cane clutched in his fist.

Greyback edged forward ever so slightly. Malfoy was a wily one, never knew when he was on guard or not. He might be ready with the wand in the event of being attacked from behind. A hairy, long clawed hand snaked out from Greyback's robe, and he froze. Shit! How had he forgotten to clip his nails, or at least enchant them? Shaking his head to clear it, he stretched out the hand again, and his eyes caught sight of something that made his blood boil with anticipation. He had the perfect solution to the present problem, as well as to getting revenge on Malfoy!

His hand inched closer, closer to Lucius' green velvet cloak, trembling ever so slightly with the thrill of it. All at once the lift slammed to a halt and Lucius made to leave. Greyback lunged forward, teetering against Lucius and sweeping past him with a muttered, "Sorry."

Lucius curled his lip in disdain, smoothed down his robe, and walked off. Damned drunken halfbreeds! Ugh! Merlin's ghost! What if it had been a mudblood—er, muggleborn? He had a hard time remembering at times he wasn't supposed to use that term anymore, by his own dictate. Shuddering, he rounded the corner.

Greyback ambled down the corridor till he saw Malfoy turn onto a side hallway, then he rushed back to the lift, clutching in his paw a long, blond strand of the man's hair that had been clinging to the cloak. He wound it carefully around his finger so he couldn't lose it, then pressed the button for the lobby, a wolfish smile playing on his lips.

(**Author****'****s****Note**: Because this is a very busy season of the year, I like to believe I can attribute the dearth of reviews lately to people not having the time to read or review. Either that or the chapters are simply too boring to comment on, but I prefer to think the former. With that in mind—along with the fact that I, myself, have loads of things I ought to be doing instead of writing—I have decided not to post again until sometime after the New Year, when things have settled down. As I am also going on vacation in January, I can't say for sure when the chapters will be forthcoming. If you like, you can use the button at the bottom of the page to subscribe to Story Alert, so when the chapter comes up, you will be notified. Cheers!)


	77. Degrees of Deception

16

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 77 (Degrees of Deception)

**October 10, 1942**

"This is hard!" Rosier complained, rubbing his temples and gazing across the lake to where a group of Hogwarts students were sitting, chatting and laughing.

Tom glanced over his shoulder at the intruders making noise, then back to the band of followers before him. "I didn't say it would be easy. If you ever need to clear your mind, do you think you can ask everyone in the vicinity to be quiet so you can concentrate?"

He shifted his position in the grass so he could watch everyone at once. He didn't like having his back to potential enemies. The rest of his comrades hadn't made a fuss, nor did they appear to be having difficulty following his direction. Rosier was going to need extra instruction, and it irritated him to think he'd be spending more of his free time teaching this idiot what he ought to be learning along with the rest.

"Close your eyes," he said in a smooth, soothing tone. "Think of the blackness and nothing else. No one else exists, nothing else exists except my voice." He paused to allow Rosier to attempt to obey. "Delve into the darkness, make it your blanket."

Taking a fallen, leafless twig from a nearby bush, he brushed it gently across Dolohov's cheek. No reaction, not so much as a muscle quirk. Excellent. He had achieved level one. Silently he did the same for Nott, Mulciber, and Lestrange, all with similar results. For their first lesson, they had failed to disappoint, which he frankly found a tad astonishing. True, clearing the mind was the easiest step, but every little bit counted. He stroked the twig over Rosier's cheek, and the boy brushed it away. Tom shook his head.

"Again," he ordered. "Do not allow external forces to sway you. Before you can begin building walls, you must clear the debris from the path. Clear your mind of all thoughts, especially those you find bothersome or stimulating."

"But how?" wailed Rosier. "There's so much to think about."

"Until you can ignore certain thoughts, you cannot block them from others seeing them," Tom explained again, sounding patient although his facial expression registered patent annoyance. "Think of Occlumency as putting your thoughts into separate compartments. Those you wish to remain private must be guarded, while those you don't care about can remain at large. Until you are able to erect walls, everything in your mind is open to me." He looked at the others, who had not responded to any of the conversation. "Close your eyes and begin again…"

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**March 7, 2001**

_Oct. 10, 1942_

_ It's been over a month since I made my diary into a horcrux. I've long since fully recovered, though I have not told any of my companions what I've done. It's not that I'm ashamed of killing my father and grandparents—they deserved it, after all. I simply believe it wise to keep certain things secret, particularly when they involve my own life or death. I dare say a horcrux certainly falls into the category of preventing death. Perhaps one day, when I'm absolutely sure of the loyalties of my followers, I will inform them. Not yet; not now._

As if Voldemort had been any good at discerning the loyalties of his followers. Regulus Black had turned on him shortly after joining, and Lucius—as much as he had pretended to be—had never been wholly in Voldemort's pocket. Severus sneered unconsciously, his mind riveted by the diary entry as always, even though he no longer felt the driving need to read it. That said, he still _wanted_ to read it, and he found that problematic. How long must he continue with these books until he was fully free? Yes, he controlled himself now, and Tom held no sway…yet he still niggled at the edges of Snape's brain, tormenting and tantalizing at once.

_On a related note, today I began instructing my friends in Occlumency. As a third year I began studying it, and quickly became proficient. I wasn't sure the others were old enough to master it, and up till now I didn't relish the notion of them hiding their thoughts from me. I no longer fear that, for my Legilimency is powerful enough to overcome any barriers they may try to erect. Nott is a seventh year; if I don't give him something tangible and new at this point, it may be too late. He's learned curses and charms from me, but this is something he in all probability could not get elsewhere. It will help cement his fealty once he's gone._

_ Nott, Mulciber, Dolohov, and Lestrange soaked up my lessons like the proverbial sponge. Not surprising. Yaxley and Avery did not join us, they're too young and not ready, though Dolohov has assured me he will take their instruction upon himself after I graduate next year. Rosier gives me pause. He is Dolohov's age, yet far beneath him in practical skill, and I don't mean only in Occlumency. I may have to enlist Claudius and Dolohov to work with him once I've moved on, if he hasn't achieved a satisfactory level before then._

_ On the plus side, assigning my minions as mentors not only improves relations between the ranks, it reinforces training for the teacher as well. It also helps bond them to me because they understand their knowledge came from me. It's an incredible feeling to see my power manifested in so many others, and to know I can still crush them all with very little effort on my part. _

"Yes, Tommy, that's the way to win friends and influence people," Severus remarked snidely. "You never changed from that attitude, either. If you had, you may have been ruling the world now, you arrogant son of a bitch."

"Am I interrupting?" Aline edged into Severus' office, her face registering concern. She held her wand in a death grip at her side. In any other situation, the query might have been rhetorical, but in the event that her husband had fallen prey to the monster again, she intended to be ready.

"No, darling, I'm talking to myself—well, not myself. Him. And no, he's not answering," Snape responded with a sigh. He closed the book, secured it in the drawer with a double locking charm, and got up. "You're off to the Longbottoms'?"

"Yes, and I think you should come with me. You did help them escape the hospital."

"They don't know that," Severus countered. Years of experience had taught him to maintain a healthy distance between himself and his transgressions, making the blame harder to attach. Old habits die hard…and besides, what was the point of exposing himself now?

"Neville will wonder why you aren't coming to see your old chums," Aline coaxed, approaching to rub a hand over his taut stomach.

While relaxing into the massage, he rolled his eyes. "We were hardly chums, love. They didn't trust me, let alone like me. Comrades-in-arms might be more appropriate."

"Whatever. Let's go." She took his hand to lead him to his fireplace.

"I thought I just said I wasn't going," he objected.

"Really? I heard 'If I want a shot at coitus tonight, I'd better accompany my wife'. Isn't it funny how two people can hear the same thing and interpret it differently?" she said, smiling coyly.

"You're conniving and wicked. I like that in my wife," he breathed into her ear, pulling her so close her ribs ached in protest. "But seriously, who in the world says 'coitus'?"

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**March 7, 2001**

"Aline, Professor Snape, come in!" Neville slid to the side of the doorway to let them pass, a broad smile plastered on his face. He waved excitedly at a couple hurrying their way. "Mum and Dad, you remember Aline." For a brief second, his expression clouded; it was highly possible they did _not_ remember, that being the main problem just now.

The couple, who were currently looking over his shoulder, came round him to stare. "Hello, Aline," they said in unison like children in a classroom welcoming a new pupil.

"Hi, Alice. Hi, Frank," she replied with a smile of her own.

Frank's eyes squinted a touch, and he took a tentative step forward, then addressed Snape. "I know you, don't I?"

Severus resisted the urge to turn to his wife in a nasty snit and proclaim, 'I told you so'. After all, maybe it was nothing. Keeping his face impassive, he made a pretense of studying the man's countenance. "You knew me many years ago, when we were in the Order of the Phoenix together," he said smoothly.

"No, that's not it. I don't recall anything about that," Frank answered, shaking his head and looking to his wife for backup. "Doesn't he look familiar?"

Severus cringed inwardly. Of course it wasn't _nothing_, he wasn't that bloody lucky!

Now Alice had moved in, head cocked and eyes piercing the Potions master. She pursed her lips, chewed on the lower one with the alacrity of a rat with a biscuit, and suddenly her face lit up. She threw up her hands as she turned to Neville. "He's the one! The one with Aline when we left the hospital! I'm sure of it."

At the same instant that Aline opened her mouth to contradict the fact and offer another plausible reason for the mix-up, and Severus grumbled, "It was my understanding you recollected nothing of the time before your healing," Neville threw his arms round the wizard as he exclaimed, "Thank you, Professor! I knew all along, I knew it had to be you, but Aline wouldn't tell me she had help except her brother."

Gazing down in horror at the arms encircling his chest, Snape made a most alarmed and disgusted sight. Physically prying the man off him and shoving him away, he drawled, "I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Longbottom." Throwing his black locks over his shoulder with a toss of his head, and realizing denial was unlikely to stand the test of scrutiny, he added, "And you're welcome."

"I don't understand," Aline said, coming up beside Severus. "Neither Frank nor Alice has been able to summon up anything of their lives before the healing with White Elk. Why would she suddenly remember this? Have the healers been making progress already?"

"Maybe," Neville agreed, nodding elatedly. "It's only been a couple of sessions, but it's possible, right?"

From the background, where she'd been hiding in the shadows, Hannah Abbott showed herself. Blond hair pulled into a ponytail and swishing with each step, she walked forward self-consciously with the two teachers' heavy stares upon her. Almost timidly she said, "They probably don't remember it. Neville's been saying it so often that Alice in all probability only _thinks_ she does." She lifted a weighty Hogwarts album in her arms and pointed to a very old snapshot of a very young Severus Snape. "He's been showing them pictures of you wherever they could be found. It's no wonder you look familiar."

Had Severus not already admitted his part in the affair, he'd have heaved a sigh of relief. No he wouldn't, he'd have mentally gloated that he'd not been caught, despite the fact that those involved were happy of his participation. Years of practice had taught him that outward displays only served to confirm people's suspicions. No need for any confirmation now, though, he'd gone and offered himself up for slaughter like a moron! The next best thing—change the subject. "Miss Abbott, I'm surprised to see you here."

"Why would you be?" asked Aline, twisting her mouth a bit. "She and Neville have been dating for a couple of years."

He turned to her with an icy glare that succinctly said, _You're not helping, darling_.

She reciprocated with a _stop-being-a-pissant-and-accept-that-people-appreciate-you_ glower. "Neville, we brought you a welcome home gift of wine. I hope you like it." She nudged Severus, who produced the bottle from the folds of his robe.

"Come in and sit down, everyone," Neville offered, motioning to the inner room. As he walked beside Aline and Severus, he said, "I'd like to hear your thoughts on some ideas the healers have offered…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Are you ready?" Dolph pushed open the door to Timothy's room to find the boy sitting on his bed, garbed in the deep green robes he'd been given to wear. Dolph had to admit, with his dark hair and eyes, the kid could easily pass for a Lestrange—er, Goodman.

Tim looked up at him, nervously stroking the soft, smooth pantlegs of his trousers. One finger traced the seam over and over. Around the house he normally wore trousers and a tunic-like shirt, but now he was expected to wear the full robe over his clothes, and it felt weird, albeit extremely comfortable. Wizard clothes were so soft, so fine he never believed he'd wear such things only a few months ago. He never dreamed anything really good would happen to him. Even now he wasn't quite sure what to think. He'd hoped for this when he trekked across the continent to find Mr. Goodman, yet believing it had truly come to pass had proven difficult. There had to be a catch; there always was in life.

"I don't know, sir," he piped up in a faint voice.

Pulling a pocket watch from the vest of his own robes, Dolph glanced at it and back to the child. He didn't have time for this. Well, he had time, he simply didn't want to waste it pissing around. Rabby's voice floated into his ear from a conversation they'd had only the night before, when Dolph had made his proposition using his brother as a sounding board. _He's not a pet, Dolph. You can't give him away when the novelty wears off, so make sure this is what you want_.

"There's nothing to be scared of," the man said finally, his tone gruffer than he'd meant it to be. "I'll hold onto you when we apparate. You'll be alright."

Tim resisted the urge to say that wasn't what he was afraid of. Mr. Goodman—Dad—was taking him to obtain a falsified birth certificate, one proving he belonged to the man. That was the part that thrilled him; not knowing what it all meant terrified him. He'd been without a real father all his life, and Dad had never had a real son…could this even work, or was it just a huge joke that would fall apart on the boy later?

"You don't have to do this, Dad," he answered softly. "I'm happy living here, being with you. You don't have to make up stuff that could get you in troub—"

"I'll decide what I have to do and what I don't," Dolph interrupted, striding to the bed and pulling the kid to his feet by one arm. "Let's go."

Without waiting for an answer he turned and walked out, down the stairs, and through the sliding glass door into the back garden. Tim closed his long robe and fastened it with the hook at the collar, then shuffled along behind him, his brows knitting in puzzlement. If they were leaving, shouldn't they be going out the front door, not into the garden? "Why are we coming out here?"

Dolph grinned, his eyes twinkling even so slightly. He'd momentarily forgotten the kid was a muggle and wasn't familiar with apparating in secret. "We can't very well waltz out into the street and disappear, now can we?"

Tim shook his head, still bemused. "Is it like the ride I had on that dragon?"

"I highly doubt it," replied the man dryly.

Dolph sidled up next to him, resting an arm round the boy's shoulders and instructing him to hold on tight. As ordered, Timothy clutched the man about the waist, resting his face against Dolph's chest, and the wizard chuckled to himself. A second later they were being sucked through a long, seemingly endless straw, gasping for breath, and at length spit out into an alley. Tim landed on his knees and began to heave. Dolph let him vomit in peace, wand in hand, eyes scanning the entrance to the alley every few moments.

When it was apparent there was nothing more coming up, Dolph murmured, "Sorry about that." Feeling like he ought to be doing something, he reached for Timothy just as the boy struggled shakily to his feet. "You alright?"

Tim nodded, head down. "You probably think I'm a baby."

"No, not at all. Till you get used to apparating, it can be pretty tricky. This being your first time, it's no big deal." He _scourgified_ the lad's clothing and let a stream of water flow from the wand for Timothy to rinse his mouth.

In silence they rounded the corner and walked a short distance on Charing Cross Road, then halted between two buildings, facing inward. Tim wrinkled his nose at the decrepit looking building wedged between them, barely more than a door actually, whose decaying wooden sign indicated it was called the _Leaky Cauldron_. Weird. "Is that it?" he asked dubiously.

Dolph made to answer, right before freezing in place, stunned. He'd been taught that muggles couldn't see this place! Sure, it was literally a sight that only sore eyes might enjoy; nevertheless, that didn't mean he liked the thought that muggles had access! "You can see it?" he asked incredulously.

"Can't you?" Tim responded in earnest.

"Of course," said Dolph, opening the door and thrusting him inside when no one appeared to be looking. Not that it mattered, apparently.

Inside, the room seemed to grow exponentially. Floating candles lit the place, and a bar manned by an older gentleman was currently patronized by several customers in very garish outfits. Dolph hustled the astonished lad along to the back of the room, not allowing him time to stare at the oddness all about, and finessed the youth from the back of the pub into a small, walled courtyard. He sized up the wall as if counting bricks and then tapped it three times with his wand. A hole appeared at that spot and grew larger and larger until it became an archway leading to a narrow, cobbled street. Dolph stepped through the archway, dragging the captivated boy with him, and the opening promptly closed behind them.

Timothy's head swiveled back and forth repeatedly as they strode through Diagon Alley, his eyes like saucers, his mouth agape. He was used to normal wizards by now, those who could blend into muggle society; he wasn't used to _this_. The strangely dressed people were the least of his concern, for he felt the allure of all these cool shops, and enticing smells and sounds. It was like something from a very old movie that he remembered from years past. He wanted to run free and explore, though obviously Dad had other ideas. He found himself jerked into a side street called Knockturn Alley.

"Can't we go and look round out there?" implored Tim. It may be peculiar, but at least it wasn't shady-looking like the alley they were entering.

"No. We've got a job to do. Step along, don't let the riff raff talk to you." The tone was so terse, so final that the boy dared not ask again. Relenting in his harshness, Dolph added, "I'm not sure it's safe yet."

Safe? Tim had only to think the word before they passed a building with several large posters plastered to the wall, mostly of wanted criminals leering and snarling at the camera. He jumped backward upon seeing Greyback glaring from one of them. Then his heart stopped and his feet followed suit: there was a picture of himself, at the Malfoy beach house, right after he'd been washed and had his hair cut. Underneath the photo, the caption read: _Missing Werewolf Boy. Presumed Dangerous. Notify the Ministry with Information_.

In an instant, the photo was burning to ashes on the wall, and Dolph returned his wand to his pocket. "You see what I mean?" He strode on, not needing to prod the boy, who hung on him like a burr.

"Yes, sir." He meekly traipsed with Dolph a few more stores down, where they entered a dimly lit establishment. Sending a mere nod to the woman manning the counter for whatever it was she was selling, Dolph headed right for the stairs in the back, which led to a tiny office.

A hunched man with greasy, thinning blond hair sitting at a desk in the corner motioned them over as if he'd been expecting them, for indeed he had been. "Mr. Goodman, how nice to see you again. I take it this is your son, the one we're doing business for today?"

"That's right," drawled Dolph, taking the chair opposite the bloke. The memory of the posters lining the alley scorched his mind, and he honestly thought of bringing them up, for no doubt this illustrious fellow was aware of their presence. By the way he was giving Timothy the once over, he recognized the boy in the picture. Then Dolph reconsidered. This man was a criminal, not likely to run to the aurors to turn in his clientele, whence sprung his livelihood…not to mention he had to be brutally conscious of the fact that if he screwed over Wendolph Goodman, it would be the last thing he ever did. "Your last work was flawless. I expect the same care this time."

"Always," assured the man. One didn't get a reputation like his for excellence without…well, being excellent. He took pride in his work, making certain every paper he forged or created looked authentic and, if magical, could stand the tests of countercharms and detection spells. "I've been ruminating on this point, and I think we ought to make the certificate for America. It's harder to check on, and I can make it for a muggle hospital where it's far cheaper and easier to replicate into their records. Frankly, a magical hospital is very difficult to deceive, and runs the risk of coming under scrutiny. It's doable, but it'll cost dearly."

"A muggle hospital in the States is fine," Dolph agreed, crossing his legs. The less the chance that anyone could find it, the better. He watched impassively as the bloke dug through a file cabinet, extricated a paper, and laid it in front of him. He picked it up to peruse, then took the offered quill and began to fill in the information as he wished it to appear.

"Baby's name…Timothy Goodman. Single birth. Sex…male. Weight…you can fill in that part, I'm not familiar with the American weight system. Father's name…Wendolph Goodman. Mother's maiden name," he murmured. When Timothy seemed about to chime in, he hurriedly made up a name on the spot, "Ernestine LaFleur. Date of birth…the fourth of February…1989." He continued until the entire paper was filled out, signed it, and handed it to the forger. "Is that all?"

"I'll need your boy to take off his socks and shoes for a footprint page. They do that over there, you know." His beady blue eyes peered at Tim, who glanced at Dolph before shucking his footwear. "Here, step on this inkpad, then onto this parchment," instructed the man, laying a roll of paper onto the floor.

Tim did as told, leaving two footprints the size of a twelve-year-old boy's feet. He gingerly stepped off onto another paper, then leaned on the edge of the desk while the wizard magically cleaned his feet so he could put his shoes on once more. He didn't see how that could possibly pass for a baby's prints, and evidently neither did Dolph, who was eyeing the proceedings warily. The forger took his wand, swirled it over the paper while muttering a charm, and the prints began to reduce in size, smaller and smaller until they could indeed have come from a newborn infant.

"Oh, you're shrinking them!" Tim exclaimed in delight.

"Not just shrinking them," said the man solemnly. "I've de-aged them. Any marks or scars you might have got over the years are gone." He held up the page proudly, displaying his work.

"Lovely," Dolph remarked in a bored tone. "Now is _that_ everything?"

The man scrutinized the answers on the form, then nodded. "All except my payment."

"When will it be accomplished and on file?"

"By next week." He held out his hand for the galleons Dolph began dropping into his palm. "I collect the second half upon verified completion. As always, a pleasure doing business with you."

After the wizard and boy left the store, Tim turned his face to his 'father'. "How come you picked the fourth of February as my birthday? I don't even remember when it was."

Looking straight ahead, Dolph shrugged one shoulder as he replied, "That's the day you came to my house asking for refuge. By default, I suppose that makes it the day I became your father."

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**March 8, 2001**

Greyback stepped out from the floo into the Ministry of Magic, straight backed, chin haughtily tilted upward the way he'd seen Malfoy do so often. He paused to get his bearings, his eyes raking over the area as he peered down his perfectly formed nose. Too bad he didn't have that bloody cane to complete the look, but he had to make do. As it was he'd been forced to break into a clothing store in Diagon Alley the night before to steal some appropriately snooty and expensive robes, which did lay beautifully on this body. And at the risk of sounding as if he enjoyed men's company in _that_ way, he had to admit Malfoy had a fine body—well muscled without overdoing it, firm stomach, smooth as silk skin. He found himself unconsciously stroking the lapels of his outer robe.

He shuddered and growled at the same time, shaking his head. No time for this crap, he must get moving. He headed for the lift, and was almost on his way when a man rammed an arm into the bars to stop it from closing, and climbed aboard. He nodded at Greyback/Malfoy.

The lift door closed and it shot downward so fast the men had to hold onto the railing inside. The new fellow turned halfway round. "Hello, Lucius. It's been a while."

Greyback stared back at him. Who the f—k was this toad, and why was he talking to him? Right, he thought Fenrir was _Malfoy_. "Hello," he drawled in return, pursing his lips and half-closing his eyes. It gave him an expression of distaste. "How are things with you?"

"Could be better," admitted the other, shrugging and sighing. "My son got sacked from his post again. What is it with kids?"

"No sense of responsibility," Greyback replied smoothly. "Toss him into the wild and watch him grow up."

The other wizard's face lit up, and he smiled. "I get what you're saying. Stop giving him everything, make him pull his weight and draw his own salary. He'd certainly find out that galleons don't grow on trees, wouldn't he?"

"And a whole lot more," Fenrir agreed, smiling wolfishly. Realizing he was falling out of character, he cleared his throat and pretended to pick lint from his immaculate garments. As the lift rattled to a halt, he said, "If you'll excuse me, I've an appointment with the Minister. It was a pleasure."

"Likewise."

The man stayed behind when Fenrir exited the car, and he hurried to the Minister's office, wand held against his forearm, out of view. He had one shot at this, and if he blew it, there'd be no more chances. He strolled brazenly into the reception area and blasted the witch at her desk with a _confundus_. She gazed blearily at him as if wondering why he was there.

"I have an appointment with Minister Shacklebolt," he said clearly in that distinctly condescending Malfoy tone. "He's expecting me. Surely he hasn't forgotten."

"Oh, right, Mr. Malfoy," she said, pointing toward the inner door. "Go on in. He's expecting you."

Greyback maneuvered past her desk and past the two guards stationed at either side of the door. He even deigned to flash a smile at them as he went in and shut the door. "Minister, I've been looking forward to this."

Kingsley raised his head from the stack of papers he'd been examining, his expression anything but welcoming. "Mr. Malfoy, what are you doing here?"

"I have business with you," Fenrir responded, moving in quickly, wand suddenly raised and aimed at the other man's chest. "Don't do anything stupid, or I'll kill you on the spot. You know I will."

"If this is about Marcus, it's a done deal. I can't change it. He's been adopted," Kingsley said. His eyes flashed from the door to his sleeve where he kept his wand.

_Marcus_. Greyback nearly took a step back. What did Malfoy have to do with Marcus? Whatever the case, this wasn't the place to discuss it. Keeping the wand leveled at Shacklebolt, he rounded the desk, dug the wand into his throat, gripped the man by the arm, and yanked him to his feet. "We're going on a little journey. Why don't we just leave this behind?"

He plucked the wand from Kingsley's sleeve and dropped it to the floor, where he ground it under foot with a snap. He then jerked the fellow to the fireplace, kicked over the urn holding floo powder so that some of it landed into the fire, and dragged Shacklebolt inside.

"I can't get Marcus back for you, Lucius!" Kingsley said, his voice rising.

"I can get him myself," replied Greyback cryptically. The guards at the door burst in at the first sound of raised voices, to see Lucius Malfoy disappearing with the Minister, the floo powder dusting the room, the wand broken on the ground.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Greyback had floo'd to an old house no longer in use, knowing he would be leaving there mere seconds later, and therefore found it irrelevant that aurors would be closing in on the establishment this very moment. He apparated himself and Shacklebolt into the meadow where his pack had used to live and threw the man away from himself, where he fell into the dirt face first. A rapid spell about the area insured that Shacklebolt would not be apparating out.

"No point in fighting me, _Minister_," he leered, drawing out the last word. "Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I won't torture you too much." He laughed, and even in the body of Lucius he managed to make it throaty and rough, harsh.

"Malfoy, you can't possibly get away with this," Kingsley began, before Fenrir cut him off.

"I'm not f—king Malfoy, you dolt!" He bent in close, his hot breath puffing in the chilly air. "Was a good cover, though, yeah? My own idea. Now tell me where my pack is."

One could almost see Shacklebolt's mind working, racing to catch up. This wasn't Malfoy, which meant he'd been polyjuiced. He wanted to know about the werewolf children, the pack—oh, shit! It was Greyback! And the fact that he made no effort to hide his identity from the Minister meant only one thing: he didn't intend to let him leave here alive.

"I can't tell you that," Kingsley said at last, trying to scuttle away and being stopped by a foot on his ankle, grinding painfully against the bone.

A curse like a sharp blade ripped into his shoulder. "Don't make me hurt you this way," taunted Greyback. "I prefer the old-fashioned methods myself, and if you keep up this silliness I'll be forced to resort to it. Let me tell you now, it does get messy."

"I won't help you further torture those children," Kingsley uttered, rubbing at the agonizing shoulder wound and drawing his hand away bloody.

Fenrir clucked his tongue. He looked at his perfectly manicured nails, shaking his head. "I can't do what I do best till I resume my real form, sorry for the inconvenience. Meanwhile, maybe this will loosen your tongue. _Crucio_."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Master Malfoy, Master Malfoy!" squealed Sisidy, running so fast she slid right past him when she came to a stop, panting, wild-eyed. "Bad peoples at the door wanting to see you. Don't go!"

"Sisidy, what is it? Who is there?" Lucius leaned forward in his chair, not quite decided on whether to get up or have the elf send the people away.

The elf raced to him and clung to his leg. "Aurors, Master Malfoy. They says you is to be arrested for stealing Minster Shacklebolt!"

**(A/N: ** On Sunday my vacation begins, so it is highly likely I will not be able to post again for three weeks. Please bear with me, and if you find it in your heart to review, it would make me very happy. Enjoy!**)**


	78. All in the Family

18

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 78 (All in the Family)

**August 12, 1995**

He heard the slight 'pop' of someone apparating behind him, but didn't turn around. A second later, another 'pop' sounded, and Lord Voldemort angled himself away from the seacliff where he'd been standing, observing the water crashing on the rocks, letting the salty wind brush over his baldness. He missed the sensation of the wind ruffling his hair. Many things were different in this new body.

To his left, some distance off, lay the castle ruins that had once been his headquarters, ruins even all those years ago, although he'd fixed them up quite a bit on the inside. Now they lay in disrepair even inside, and he didn't care. He didn't want to live here anymore, and he couldn't live in his father's old house, not with the aurors staking it out ever since the Potter debacle in the graveyard. He shuddered more with wrath than cold. This was the very reason for the meeting, Potter's sickening defeat of him once again. This pattern had to end!

"Master, I've found and brought Greyback as you ordered," Macnair said, dropping to his knees and bowing his head.

The hulking man knelt as well, his eyes piercing the dark wizard. His stench reached across the open area, making the dark lord wrinkle his nose in distaste. "Lord Voldemort, it's true, you've returned! What do you wish of me?"

"My friend, rise," said Voldemort to Greyback. Macnair peeked up at the dark lord, but dared not rise without express permission. If anything, the master had returned more vicious than he'd been before his 'death'.

"You still have access to werewolves, do you not?" asked Voldemort bluntly.

"Yes. I have many acquaintances. Some of them worked with us before….before." Greyback hesitated, wondering if this was a touchy subject.

"I'd like you to rejoin us, Fenrir," cooed Voldemort, ambling over to him. "The war is just beginning again, and this time we shall be victorious. When we are, werewolves will have access to all the victims they desire."

Greyback licked his lips; he liked the sound of that. "I'd be honoured."

"However," Voldemort added, cocking his head, "I'd like you to create a small army of werewolves, under your tutelage and command. Bite as many as you must to accomplish this."

"My pleasure," said Greyback, smiling wolfishly. "If I may suggest, though, adults and teenagers tend to be resistant to the idea of being a werewolf. Once bitten, they would likely run off or fight us rather than pledge allegiance. Children would suit us better."

"Yes, much more pliant, easier to manipulate," mused the dark lord. And raised to believe in the dark wizard's cause, they'd be more reliable than he'd found his original followers to be. "Do it."

"If I might interject?" Macnair voiced from his position on the ground. When no one told him to shut up, he said, "Only bite muggle brats. No point in wasting magical blood, right?"

"Excellent point, Macnair," said Voldemort. "You may go, you have fulfilled your duty." He turned his back on the Death Eater. "Welcome back, Fenrir. I very much look forward to our continued partnership."

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_Aug. 12, 1995_

_ Greyback is among our ranks once again. I have charged him with the task of creating an army of werewolf children, raised to do as he says and believe in my superiority. It is the perfect combination. We will win this war, and the next time I face Harry Potter, I will crush him without mercy. Perhaps I'll let Fenrir bite him, change him into a werewolf. Wouldn't that be fitting? But no…he must die. He has defied and humiliated me too many times to be allowed life in any form. There is no place in my new world for the likes of him._

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**March 8, 2001**

Despite the chill in the air and the half-frozen ground beneath him, Shacklebolt's brow glistened with sweat, dimmed by a thin layer of dirt that coated the wetness and blood on his face and neck. He'd been here no more than two hours, by his best estimate; Lucius Malfoy had indeed transformed into Fenrir Greyback perhaps an hour hence. And that fact terrified him. Although Malfoy was an arrogant, obnoxious prick who bought his way into whatever he wanted—except Marcus—he had never been proven a psychotic murderer. Greyback was another story altogether. If what Kingsley had endured to this point was any indication, he was in for a rough patch, to put it mildly.

He raised supplicating hands in front of his face, shuffling as far back as the bonds on his ankles, tethering him to the earth, would allow. "Greyback, there is nothing I can tell you. Can't you see that?"

Fenrir bent down, his mouth closing in on the other man's neck, his hot, foul breath panting against Kingsley's skin, the sight of his fangs making Kingsley cringe further away, if possible. An evil leer crossed his countenance. "You're a liar. As I recall, you're the Minister of Magic…oh, and I've heard tell from a reliable source that you were in charge of parceling my pack out to outsiders. So let's stop the deceit, shall we? The longer you lie and stall, the more I'm going to torture you."

He traced a filthy, yellow-clawed finger over a blistered patch of the Minister's skin, down a deep bleeding groove on the neck, where he paused only a second before ripping the shirt right off the man, leaving it in tatters on his shoulders. _Such beautiful skin, a real shame to defile it_, he thought. And yet, it was such fun. At any rate, he had business to attend to, and with evening on the horizon and the full moon coming tomorrow night, he hadn't time to piss around. He needed to find his pack, and fast.

"Let me start you off," Fenrir cooed. If it was meant to assuage Kingsley's fear, it failed miserably, not to mention it didn't suit him in the least. In fact, it came out as a husky, rasped coo that scarcely qualified and made him sound all the more menacing. "You've already told me Malfoy's got something to do with Marcus."

"I never said that!" Shacklebolt protested.

"Ah, but you did. In your office you babbled on about Marcus being adopted and Malfoy upset over it. If you won't tell me where my boy is, surely my dear friend Lucius will." He smiled in a sinister way again, rising from his position on one knee beside the other fellow. "Now, how about the rest? I heard only six were in your care."

Shacklebolt hesitated. Mateo had told him what had become of Greyback's pack, but he highly doubted the werewolf wanted to hear it. A kick to the gut loosened his tongue. "The—the vampires—killed them," he gasped while struggling for breath. "We—had—nothing to—do—with it."

A sharp claw raked his cheek nevertheless, opening a slash that oozed blood onto his chin and dripped to the ground. Greyback swore a string of profanities, though he made no further move to injure the man just now. Pa had said the kids had gone looking for vampires…apparently they'd found them. It gave him a strange, empty feeling in his stomach.

"Who is left?" Greyback whispered.

Shacklebolt's eyes sought refuge that was nowhere to be found. He could tell the truth, or say nothing, or lie, the latter two of which would only earn him more torture, and for naught. Greyback could easily find out the answer to that question by reading the _Daily Prophet_. It was hardly a secret. Feeling shame and not exactly sure why, he mumbled, "Charlotte, Henry, Tim, Brooke, and Roger."

Fenrir sat back on his haunches, pleased. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Now tell me where they are."

"No."

One huge paw swept forward, slashing Kingsley's stomach open in four wide, deep furrows. He screamed and fell backward, his head striking the earth. "As much as I enjoy this, Minister, I must assume you're not having a good time. Tell me what I want to know, and it will stop." _And I can kill you and move on_.

"I can't—I won't!" Kingsley shouted with the last of his strength. "They're children, just leave them alone!"

"They're _my_ children," Greyback corrected him in a growl. His hand shot forward once more, this time ramming his claws into Kingsley's testicles. The Minister screamed, then promptly passed out. "Ah, f—k." Now he'd have to wait for him to rouse…which gave time for him to visit Malfoy Manor and have a little chat with Lucius.

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Lucius and Narcissa stood in the front lawn of Malfoy Manor staring off into the sky and waving to the two blobs that grew smaller by the second. Marcus had gone flying away on those tremendous white winged horses with the Tanassovs, this time for good. Yes, he'd be back on occasion for visits, and they'd travel to see him as well, but it wasn't the same. It would never be the same again.

When Narcissa turned to Lucius, tears hung precariously in the corners of her eyes, ready to fall. "He's gone," she whispered, edging next to the wizard.

"Yes," Lucius whispered back, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He put his arm round her waist, drawing her as near as possible, desperately needing her closeness. The dots in the sky were almost impossible to detect now. Without another word he guided her back into the house, into the main sitting room. On the coffee table were glasses of wine left from the day's visit. He picked up his own and slumped into the chair near the fireplace, as his wife perched on his lap.

"It won't be all bad," Narcissa said, trying to sound cheerful. "There will only be two children to take care of now." Then she burst into tears, leaning forward with her face in her hands.

"Love, please." Lucius stroked her hair and laid his cheek on her back. They'd had the boy for such a short time, he still could not fathom how he and Narcissa had become so attached to the muggle child. Yet they had, and his heart ached along with hers.

"Master Malfoy, Master Malfoy!" squealed Sisidy, running so fast she slid right past him when she came to a stop, panting, wild-eyed. "Bad peoples at the door wanting to see you. Don't go!"

"Sisidy, what is it? Who is there?" Lucius leaned forward in his chair, not quite decided on whether to get up or have the elf send the people away.

The elf raced to him and clung to his leg. "Aurors, Master Malfoy. They says you is to be arrested for stealing Minister Shacklebolt!"

"What?" exclaimed Lucius and Narcissa together.

In one move Narcissa got up and twisted round to her husband, her blue eyes stormy and troubled. "Lucius, please tell me you didn't do anything…untoward."

He stared back at her in absolute dismay, and a little hurt, as he rose smoothly from his seat, setting his goblet on the table. "Darling, you've known me most of my life. Assuming I were foolish enough to try something of this magnitude, do you honestly think I'd be idiotic enough to sit around here waiting to be caught?"

"Of course not, love. I'm sorry." She wedged a hand between Sisidy's head and her husband's leg, her sharp fingernails digging into the elf's scalp though it appeared not to notice. "Sisidy, go tell the aurors we'll be right there."

Lucius threw back his head, shaking his hair out of his face, for a Malfoy did not receive company looking ill-kempt—even if that company happened to be unwelcome visitors hoping to cause him massive problems. Then he took Narcissa's hand. "I'm sure it's nothing. I've done nothing. Minister Shacklebolt probably wants to see how much misery he can inflict upon us."

Leading the way, his hand firmly grasped between both of his wife's, he entered the foyer where two aurors awaited him. The male of the pair gestured at him as he approached. "That's far enough, Mr. Malfoy. Hand over your wand."

In light of the fact that both of the aurors had their wands trained on the Malfoys, Lucius stopped in his tracks, though he made no move to comply. He raised his arms to the sides, palms up. "I am unarmed. I am also very confused as to why you are in my home threatening myself and my wife."

"As if you don't know," said the female auror. When neither of the Malfoys spoke, she elaborated, "Earlier today three people saw you go into the Minister's office; two of them were aurors, and they saw you leaving through the floo with the Minister, who appeared to be held at wandpoint. So forgive us if we seem a bit testy."

"Lucius has been here all day with me and the Tanassovs," Narcissa interrupted. "When did he have time for kidnapping?"

"And if I had, would I actually let anyone see me in my true form? Or would I be sitting here waiting for you to arrive and arrest me?" asked Lucius, arching a fine blond eyebrow.

The aurors exchanged uneasy glances; they'd wondered the same thing. Nonetheless, they'd been ordered to bring in Malfoy, and that was what they intended to do. The wizard cleared his throat. "That's not for us to say. You can explain it to the Wizengamot, if it goes that far."

"We have witnesses that can prove I'm telling the truth!" Lucius barked in exasperation. "Luna Lovegood and her husband were here all day."

"So where are they?" asked the witch.

Good question. They'd flown off on those humongous horses on their way back to Bulgaria, and wouldn't arrive for hours…assuming they went straight home. "Contact Durmstrang Institute, where Tanassov is the Headmaster. They'll let you know when he gets in. For heaven's sake, if you got on a broom you could catch up to them!"

"That's really not our job," said the man, shaking his head. "Come with us. You're wanted for questioning."

"Am I under arrest?" Lucius queried, dreading the answer.

"Yes." The man twitched his wand at Malfoy. "Let's go, unless you prefer to be _stupefied_ first."

"This is outrageous! If the Ministry thinks they can get away with committing such abuse, they'd best think again," Lucius snarled. As the female auror frisked him for a wand, which she did not find, then turned him to bind his hands behind him, he addressed his wife, "Narcissa, call Mr. Norman. He'll know what to do." Through narrowed eyes he regarded the two aurors, memorizing every detail of their faces. They'd pay dearly for this insult as well.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

His father had been arrested. Again. Draco wanted to believe he was innocent, he really, truly did, but the fact remained that Lucius Malfoy had a history of doing things that were…less than legal. Lucius loved Marcus, he resented the fact that Kingsley Shacklebolt had kept the boy from him—yet would he endanger his future and that of his family to get back at Shacklebolt this way? No, it defied reason. While Father may be spiteful and prone to retribution, and he certainly had hard feelings on his side, he wasn't brainless. He would no more waltz into the Minister's office and take him captive than he'd dress as a muggle mime and solicit money on the street. It simply wasn't done!

"Day-co, look!" Khala paraded in front of her brother waving a handful of dead, wet leaves she'd pulled from a pile of mud left over from the winter snow.

"Um, yeah, very nice. Why don't you put that down and go play something not filthy?"

His sister merely gazed at him in adoration, then slung the muddy lot onto his lap. "I give," she said proudly.

Grimacing, he swiped them onto the ground. Wasn't it enough he had to babysit the children while Mother went looking for help among the barristers? Did he have to get muddy, too? At Khala's crestfallen look, he got off the low stone wall where he'd been sitting, knelt beside her, and scooped them into a pile. "I'll take them into the house when we go, okay?"

"K," agreed the little girl. She flung her tiny arms round his neck, and he kissed her cold cheek.

"Brax, don't go over there!" he called, standing up and immediately moving forward as his brother approached the pond. It was no longer frozen, and could prove deadly. "Brax!"

Ladon turned around, smiling. "Wanna play on the ice."

"No!" Lifting Khala into the crook of one arm, he marched to the toddler and took hold of his coat at the nape of the neck, dragging him several tiny paces back. "It's not safe now. Look." He crouched down and set his sister on his leg where he could watch her. With his wand he poked at the floating bits of ice that remained. "You'd fall in and be badly hurt. Then Mother and Father would be upset and cry. Is that what you want?"

"No," said Ladon, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. He crossed his arms to show his disapproval, then suddenly his eyes grew wide; he stared out beyond Draco.

"My, my, my, I do have good luck lately," said a raspy, harsh voice.

Draco began to turn, but a slap to the back of the head and a barked command stopped him. "Don't turn around. Just tell me what I want to know."

"Who are you?"

Greyback ignored him. He'd seen Lucius being led away a short while ago, and had rejoiced in the realization of his plan: Malfoy was being blamed for Shacklebolt's disappearance! If he couldn't talk to the elder Malfoy, this one would do just as well—perhaps even better, since he hadn't the training to duel and mentally resist as Lucius had. "Where is Marcus?"

"None of your business," retorted Draco. Another smack resounded against his skull, knocking him to his knees and causing Khala to spill off his lap onto the ground.

In a frightening tone Greyback said, "I see in front of me two darling little recruits for my pack. If you don't start talking, I'll blast you and bite them." It seemed only fair. Malfoy had caused him to lose at least one kid…taking two in return seemed reasonable.

"Greyback, don't!" Draco yelped in a high voice that sounded unnatural to his ears. "Don't hurt them." He spun round, thrusting the children behind him, his wand firing a hex that missed by mere centimeters.

Immediately Greyback's curse struck him in the chest and he slammed to the ground on his back, winded. "Fool move, Draco." Leering at the tiny boy and girl huddled at Draco's side, he moved forward and stretched out his hand to Ladon. "Come here, boy."

"No." Ladon pressed himself to his brother, sandwiching the whimpering Khala between them. "Dracoooo."

Draco raised his wand again, only to have Greyback stomp on his wrist and bend close over him, wand pointed in his face. "Tell me now!"

"Stop it!" screamed Ladon, swinging a fist at the werewolf. It hit his leg with scarcely a bit of impact. "Stopitstopitstopit!"

Greyback looked over at him, smiling cruelly. "Want to watch your brother die?"

"NOOOO!" shrilled the tyke in a bloodcurdling tone that reverberated through the garden.

A second later—and Greyback could not describe how it happened if his life depended on it—the werewolf was on his knees gasping for breath. His clawish hands dug at his neck as if trying to pry off unseen fingers. As he knelt choking on the cold, wet earth, Draco scuttled away from him, sat up and clutched one child in each arm, and disapparated.

They apparated outside Black Manor, Narcissa's childhood home, where Andromeda had come to live with Teddy. Draco ushered the children across the lawn and up onto the porch, where he pounded fiercely until Andromeda answered the door.

"Draco, what's going on? You look—"

"Aunt Andy, are the Black blood wards still in effect here?" Draco inquired in a mere whisper.

"Yes. I never took them down. Why?" She shooed the little ones inside, and after they were safe Draco followed.

He collapsed into the nearest chair, tears of relief springing to his eyes. "We need to stay here. Father's been arrested, Mother isn't home, and Greyback just tried to bite Ladon."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Greyback returned to the clearing where he'd left Kingsley in even more of a foul mood than he'd left it, if possible. He'd been so close to getting the information he needed, and a little brat of a boy—a baby, for crying out loud—had somehow foiled him! And the kid didn't even have a wand! He had a strange feeling that the dark lord must have felt like this when the baby Potter had turned him into…whatever it was he'd turned him into.

"Well, Kingsley, looks like it's you and me again," he said in a growl, wand in hand. "And I ain't in no mood for your shit, so you'd better start talking."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 9, 2001**

"Goodman!"

Jorab paused on the walk to Dolph's house, turning his head to the neighbor who'd spoken. The muggle seemed annoyed, which was nothing new; when he'd lived with Dolph, the skinny, neurotic bloke had always been complaining about something—weeds in their back garden, dead flowers in their front lawn, strange people lurking about. "Yes?"

The muggle stomped off his porch, down the steps and over to the fence dividing the property. "This morning that boy of yours—"

"If you mean Timothy, he's my brother's son," Rabby interrupted.

"Your nephew, then. He broke my window with a rock, and I expect it paid for."

"How do you know it was Timothy who did it?"

"I saw him," declared the man, shaking his finger at the Goodman house. "He ran into the house, and when I followed he refused to open the door."

A flash of anger shot through Jorab, mitigated by the thought that Dolph would flatten the man where he stood for chasing his son, whether the boy was guilty or not. "I will thank you to stay on your own property, Mr. Birch. This will more than cover the cost of replacing the window." He removed his wallet from his robe pocket and shuffled through the muggle money he kept there. Counting out a hundred pounds, he handed it over with a warning glare. "I'd recommend you keep your distance from Timothy, unless you want trouble with Dolph. And believe me, you _don't_ want that."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Let's call it friendly advice," said Rab. He resumed his way toward the house.

"The little brat needs a good belting, if you ask me," muttered the neighbor.

"My brother will decide what his son needs, thank you," Rabby returned coldly, without so much as twisting his neck toward the other fellow. He slammed the door behind him when he entered.

From the dining room table where Tim was sitting with his tutor, both pairs of eyes landed on Jorab as he made his unnecessarily loud entrance. He took in the scene in an instant; he thought he noted an inkling of disappointment from the boy that he wasn't Dolph. He nodded to the old gentleman. "Hello, Mr. Ulysses. Timothy, your dad got called on an emergency, so I came to stay with you."

"Okay, Uncle Rab." Tim lifted his head from the list of words he'd been studying and looked at his teacher. "Mr. Ulysses, how come the rule isn't the same all the time? Like here we've got hoot, coot, boot, scoot—then 'foot'. And over here there's dough, cough, and bough. What's that all about?"

Mr. Ulysses pointed to the former list as he explained, "I believe 'foot' was probably pronounced like the rest in the past. Over time, the spelling stayed the same, but the pronunciation got slurred. As for the others, you'll just need to learn them as is. I can't tell you any rule for that."

"It's confusing."

"I suppose so," admitted his tutor. "But that's the way it is."

"Where's Ophelia?" asked Jorab suddenly. Why hadn't she answered the door when the neighbor had come pounding?

"She has the day off," Tim answered, stopping himself before adding that Dad said he'd give her every full moon off to be on the safe side.

Rab nodded again. One less thing to worry about. "Mr. Ulysses, thank you for staying with my nephew. It's getting late, I'm sure you'd like to be going." He unconsciously glanced at the clock over the mantle. Nightfall wasn't far off, Snape would be here soon with the Wolfsbane, and the last thing they needed was for this excellent teacher to find out his pupil was a werewolf and go running for the hills.

He waited till the old fellow had gone before walking to the table to stand over the boy. "Timothy, did you throw a rock at Mr. Birch's house?"

"No, sir," answered Tim, head down, shuffling his papers nervously. He may as well have screamed 'yes, I did.'

"Don't lie to me. As it is, I'm going to have to tell your father about this incident, and I'd prefer to tell him you were honest about it."

"But I didn't!" Tim shrieked in desperation. He looked up at his uncle. "I threw it at that stupid dog that's always barking and growling at me…I missed."

"And broke the window. I see."

"It hates me. I think it smells the wolf," said Tim, gesturing vaguely toward the neighbor's house. His fingers tapped softly on the tabletop. "Will Dad be very cross?"

Rab's face broke into a grin. "I doubt it. He doesn't much care for Mr. Birch or that awful creature of his. But from now on, refrain from rock throwing."

"Alright," Tim agreed shyly, grinning back. "It'll be time soon. Will you be taking me to the place with bars like last month?"

"No. You were very calm last month, so Dolph decided to put you in the cellar today." A slight twist of his mouth accompanied the next remark. "I'm sorry. I feel badly about it, locking you in there like a prisoner." Or a bad, unwanted child. He knew that feeling all too well.

"It's not your fault, Uncle Rab. I'll be okay." Tim put on a brave front for the wizard, though he truthfully didn't like being left all alone during the change. He was used to having others around during the transformation, and it made him lonely. He wished Dad was here.

"But next month, if all goes well, I think we can leave you in my—your room." Rabby blushed and shook his head. It wasn't going to be his room ever again. He was married and moved away, it belonged to Timothy now. "We're just being cautious."

"I know." Tim gathered up his school books and supplies and set them in a stack on the edge of the table. Dad and Uncle Rab didn't know he'd overheard them talking last night about Lucius Malfoy, how he'd been arrested, and how Fenrir Greyback had come to his house and attacked his children. Dad had said that Greyback wouldn't he be able to find Tim when no one outside this little group knew where he was, but could he be sure? Without looking at the man, he murmured, "Thanks for coming to sit with me."

"I'm your uncle, kid. That's what I'm here for." Rab smiled at him, then headed into the kitchen. "So, do you have anything to eat? I'm starved."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Sweetie, if you don't take the potion, we can't stay with you," Luna cajoled, holding the cup out to the little boy who sat in front of her on a stool in their private quarters.

Marcus wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms. Beads of nervous sweat clung to his golden hair. "It hurts, Mummy."

"The Wolfsbane hurts you?" asked Tanassov, striding into the bedroom, a confused expression puckering his brow.

Marcus shook his head. "It just tastes awful. It hurts being a werewolf…changing."

Luna and Dimitar exchanged pitied glances. It was purported to be excruciating to undergo the transformation, and to do so every month had to be a terrible ordeal. "Next month I will try to have something to make the pain less," the wizard promised. He took the cup from Luna and held it out for the child. "You must drink this now. The hour grows late."

Marcus bit down on his lip, grasped the goblet from his father, and drained it as fast as he could with intermittent bouts of coughing. Tears hung in the corners of his eyes, yet he gave a victorious smile. "I did it." Now they would wait.

"Luna, darling, I believe one of your English students needed to speak with you," Dimitar said, angling his head toward the doorway. Without words he conveyed to his wife his desire that she leave until the lad had completed the transformation, both for her sake and for Marcus'.

She made as if to leave, loitering in the doorway with a wistful glance at her son. It broke her heart to know what he'd shortly endure, yet to watch his agony and be unable to alleviate it made her ache as well. "I'll be back very soon. Be good for Tate."

"I will," Marcus said. At his father's bidding, he crawled up on the man's lap and flung his arms round his waist, resting his cheek on the man's chest. For now, at least, he was happy. He'd learned to cherish those moments when he could, before the hurting took over.

Within half an hour it began. As always, it came slowly at first, like a thief sneaking into his room and poking him with a stick. He leapt off Tanassov's lap and began ripping at his clothing, trying to get them off before the wolf took over. His shirt flew into one corner, his trousers into another; his stockings clung to his ankles as he frantically tugged, but the pain was too great and he fell to the floor howling and huddled in a ball. His nose and face elongated into a snout, his legs bent at an angle impossible for a human, his fingers took on sharp claws. All the while he screamed and thrashed, no longer cognizant of his father staring at him, desperately wishing he could do something to help.

When it was done, he lay on the floor panting and whimpering. Tanassov stepped forward, leaned down, and picked up the boy as if he weighed nothing at all. He returned to his armchair and set the werewolf on his lap, pulling him close. "It is alright, my son. I am here."

Marcus responded with a pitiful whine as he curled into a ball once more.

Stroking the wavy golden fur, Tanassov began to gently rock the child in his arms. In his deep, calming voice he started to sing an old lullaby he remembered his mother singing when he was a child. The tune lilted up and down for every other syllable, the words corresponding to the rocking motion of a cradle. "Lyu, lyu, lyu, lyu, lyulchica," (_cra, cra, cra, cra,_ _cradle_) he crooned. "Shturcho vzel tsigultchitsa," (_The little grasshopper took a little violin_). It seemed to be making the boy less agitated, so he went on, his voice filling the room, reverberating about like a blanket of reassuring sound enveloping the child. "I zasviril pesnichka. Mnogo, mnogo lesnichka." (_And started playing a song. A very, very simple one._)

From the doorway where she'd been observing the interaction, Luna cleared her throat. Dimitar looked up at her, his face darkening in a blush, though he continued to sing. "Lyu, lyu, lyu, lyu…"

"Lyulchica," Luna sang along with him as she walked in to sit on the arm of the chair beside him. "Shturcho vzel tsigultchitsa. I zasviril pesnichka. Mnogo, mnogo lesnichka." Her hand glided over her husband's black hair in a loving gesture while she patted Marcus softly. The lad sighed contentedly. "I was under the impression Bulgarian men were too 'macho' to sing to their children," she said teasingly.

"No one heard except you," he retorted defensively, then pulled her in close to himself and Marcus. "Besides, I defy anyone to challenge my right to soothe my son." The steely resolve in his eyes attested to the veracity of that statement: he would not let a challenge go unanswered, nor would there be a peaceful ending to the dispute.

Luna smiled to herself. She pitied the man stupid enough to mock her husband. "Your compassion for Marcus is admirable. It makes me love you even more."

"Did you know that cradles traditionally were only a mother's apron?" he asked out of the blue. "They were hung on a tree branch, swaying in the wind."

"No, I didn't know that," Luna confessed in a pensive tone. She paused to think, then added, "It gives a lot of meaning to our own lullaby 'Rock-a-bye baby'. I used to think it so gruesome, putting a cradle on the treetop, but when you think of it as an apron, it makes a lot of sense. Now if only we could devise a way to keep nargles away."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

From outside the barred attic door, Harry listened to the screaming within. He knew it hurt to change to a werewolf, Lupin had told him so, and the past month had been proof. He'd simply hoped it would get easier to listen to. Behind him, lying docilely on a blanket on the floor, was Henry. They'd purposely kept him busy all day so when night fell, he'd be sleepy, and the Wolfsbane would allow him to rest. It seemed to be working for him, though not for Charlotte.

"Sirius, is everything alright?" he called through the door. She ought to have stopped morphing several minutes ago.

From the other side of the door came Sirius' muffled voice, "She's transformed, but the Wolfsbane isn't working. Should've known Snape couldn't be trusted to come up with an alternate formula for her!"

"Come out, then! We don't need for you to get hurt," Harry pleaded.

"Let me try my animagus form. It used to work for Lupin."

Harry paced nervously outside, every few seconds glancing at the door. Inside he heard growls, sounds of clawing on wood, and a tremendous crash that made his heart jump. "Sirius!"

An instant later, Black apparated through the door next to Harry. He shook his head. "She's too far gone. This Wolfsbane is making her crazier than a normal werewolf. Maybe next month we'll just have to let her change without it; I might be able to calm her then."

"I feel so bad for her," Harry said. "All the other kids are doing fine with the potion, and she has to watch them while she suffers."

"I worry, too," Sirius admitted, glancing at the closed door, listening to the howls within. "I wish I knew what to do." He bent down to pick up the little brown bundle of fur from the blanket and press him to his chest. "Let's take Henry downstairs where we can watch him. I can't listen to this much longer."

"I'm glad Ginny isn't here. She'd have to say she told me so," Harry said, grimacing. She'd warned him that playing guardian to two werewolf children would be hard and dangerous, and he'd downplayed it.

As they walked down the stairs, Sirius' voice drifted back to him, "I hope you aren't sorry for deciding to take in these kids, Harry. We're the only family they've got now. They need us." Sirius had never been needed, not really—loved by his brother and friends, and Daphne, he hoped—but not needed by anyone. He liked the feeling, even if it came with difficult periods.

"I'm not sorry, Sirius. I love Henry and Charlotte as much as you do. I only wish things could be easier…"


	79. Hope

15

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 79 (Hope)

**(A/N: I realize I was gone for three weeks, and people may have missed seeing the chapter I posted last week. If you did not read the previous chapter, please go back and do that before continuing with this one. Thank you.)**

**March 9, 2001 (night)**

It was a full moon, at least insofar as Shacklebolt could tell from the shape of the orb through the swollen cut bleeding into his eye. Half sitting, half laying on his side in the field, he blinked and groaned softly. God, it hurt. Everything hurt, making it moot to try deciding which part ached the most. Greyback had been particularly vicious in his torture earlier in the day, and Kingsley's body had paid the price.

To make matters worse—and yes, he realized they could indeed get worse—if Greyback came back now, he'd likely be devoured by the brute without a second thought. He laughed in spite of himself. Not only would that make for a spectacularly bad day for Kingsley, it would certainly put a crimp in Greyback's agenda, though the monster wouldn't recognize that fact until morning, which would be a bit late for the Minister of Magic. Kingsley frowned and tried to sit up. The werewolf's plans of extracting the information about his pack had thus far been unsuccessful, except that tidbit about Marcus, and Kingsley only hoped the werewolf hadn't done anything horrendous to Malfoy. Not that he cared about Malfoy, per se, but out of basic human concern.

Using every ounce of reserve strength, he managed to wrench himself into a seated position, his hands grasping for the five-meter-high post sunk deep into the ground, the post around which his wrist and ankle chains had been secured. Tears of agony rolled down his face as sweat from the exertion beaded on his forehead; a cool breeze skimming over his moist skin made him tremble. He clung to the stick, panting. It was far too tall for him to raise the chains up and off, and too sturdy and heavy to pull from the earth, for he'd spent a good deal of the night attempting just that.

He glanced furtively about, listening for any sound of Greyback or another animal approaching. Nothing. He had to try something new. He'd heard that in muggle schools, some instructors required their students to climb ropes…well, he was in reasonably good shape—before the torture, at any rate—and if this didn't work, he may as well lay down and die, because he'd never give up the children, and Greyback's patience had worn very thin.

He rubbed his palms on his robes to clean off whatever blood possible, and set his feet on either side of the pole. Hopping as high into the air as he could, he grabbed the pole, hoisting himself up with the power of his biceps and digging his shoes into the pole for support, pushing upward with his feet. Exhilaration ran through him. This could work! With the chain clanking uncomfortably loudly, his feet pushed harder, and he slowly dragged himself up gradually, hand over hand climbing skyward. He inched upward, his mind whirling. Once he reached the top, his hands could lift over and be free of the wooden stake, though he'd need to somehow straddle the pole or sit on it to free his feet. That would prove most painful to his bum, though in light of the fact it could save his life, he was willing to risk it.

At last he reached the summit, and he almost cried out in joy as his hands clutched for the top of the post, pulling him up till he was able to balance himself with his legs grasping the pole. He raised his chained hands over the post, liberating him…sort of. Now for the hardest part: freeing his feet. He leaned to the side, trying to figure the best way to bring his feet up, when he heard a groaning that he knew hadn't come from himself. The post vibrated slightly.

Kingsley grinned. Clutching the post in both hands again, he leaned as far backward as he could, and the post protested once more with a louder groan and a creaking sound. But it moved! He threw himself forward hard, and the post obligingly went with him. Back and forth he flung his body, causing the pole to wiggle and wobble. Just when he thought it was ready to topple to the ground, a thunderous crack split the air and he was falling, falling…then nothing.

He awoke on his back some time later, how long he had no idea, though it was still night. His head—along with every centimeter of his spine—screamed at him most insistently. He looked down his body at his hands, which gripped the pole even now; its far end was sharp and jagged. And then he understood that the post had snapped off halfway up, making him tumble to the ground and probably giving him a concussion and a few broken ribs. He let go and scooted his body along the ground, pushing the wood away from himself and finally freeing his feet. Panting, chains on wrists and ankles clanking again, he dragged himself through the cold dirt, his destination anywhere as far from here as humanly possible. The second that he sensed he'd crossed the anti-apparition boundary, he apparated away.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 10, 2001 (morning)**

A very naked Greyback stumbled across the ground, his muscles adjusting to being human once more, the soles of his feet protesting at the cold, hard earth. A shiver ran down his spine. He'd purposely gone a far distance off so as not to accidentally murder the Minister till he'd gotten the information he required, and he regretted not disrobing at the destination rather than before he left. Live and learn. At times he sincerely wished he could just stay a werewolf and be done with it, but it wasn't as if he had a choice. And being a wizard wasn't bad, though he wasn't as strong…but he did get to use magic. Now where had he put his clothing? Shrugging, he held out a hand and pronounced an _accio_. From behind a nearby tree, the clothes sailed into his hand. He yanked them on, secured his wand, and stepped into the clearing where he'd left Shacklebolt the previous night.

He stopped dead and looked around in bewilderment. Where the f—k was he? He did a full circle, his breath coming ragged and hard. Streams of profanity rushed from his mouth at the sight of the jagged pole laying on the field. Son of a bitch, he was gone!

Pacing furiously, ranting to himself, he pondered how this had occurred. He didn't smell any foreign human, so Shacklebolt had not had help. He could still feel the anti-apparition wards, so he hadn't escaped that way. The pole was broken, so obviously that had been how he'd freed himself, but _how_? And where was he? He ran across the clearing, sniffing the air feverishly, looking for signs of the Minister, and ended up at the post. He glanced up at the remaining section, still puzzled as to how anyone could have snapped it off so high up. Then his gaze went to the ground. The grass bore spots of fresh blood, and it left a minute trail along the crushed blades, a trail he easily followed out of the clearing, where it ended abruptly. Evidently Kingsley had dragged himself out and apparated to freedom. Another stream of profanity echoed the first round. Fenrir hoisted up the shaft of wood on the ground and flung it as far as he could. Shacklebolt thought he was so smart, did he? He'd find out.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

When Severus walked into the room, he did a double take, wondering if perhaps he'd mistakenly entered into a fancy hotel room, or maybe the love nest of one of the Ministry officials. A king-sized bed decked out in green satin sheets and a raw silk comforter graced the middle of the room, flanked by a nightstand on one side and a small refrigerator on the other. A writing desk faced one wall, complete with quill, parchment, and ink; a candelabra on a single wall shelf cast its shadowy light over everything.

Had not Malfoy come ambling out of his private loo just then, Severus might have backed out and gone looking for the appropriate cell. "Well, Lucius, you certainly managed to obtain agreeable accommodations," Severus drawled.

Lucius pierced him with a dead stare. "I couldn't care less what the room looks like." Obvious lie, but Severus let it pass. "Mr. Norman insisted upon these concessions on their part, seeing as they've arrested and detained an innocent man. They won't even give me Veritaserum; they say too many ex-Death Eaters in the past had discovered how to withstand its effects."

Severus walked over and spun around the overstuffed armchair beside the writing desk, then slowly seated himself. Of course the Death Eaters had become skilled at withstanding its effects, Voldemort had taught them the hard way—learn, or be tortured and _then_ learn. "They wouldn't allow non-family visitors, or I'd have come sooner. Frankly, I'm rather surprised they didn't try to haul you to Azkaban. The Ministry does have a habit of jumping the gun and pointing fingers."

"Jumping the gun?" asked Lucius, quirking a brow.

"Muggle phrase…comes from runners in a race, when they fire the starter pistol—"

"I don't care, Severus," Lucius interrupted, waving an impatient hand through the air as if trying to dispel a horde of gnats. "I just want out of this hellhole."

Severus' black eyes flicked about the room once more. Hardly a hellhole, but that was immaterial, wasn't it? "I've been trying to contact Tanassov, and was finally successful today. He assures me he will arrive no later than this afternoon to give his statement to the aurors."

The weight of the world seemed to drop from Lucius' shoulders, which relaxed visibly. He sighed, nodding. "Thank you. With his testimony, it's unlikely they'll be able to keep me here. I mean, seriously, don't they ever think that maybe someone polyjuiced himself—or herself—to resemble me?"

"In point of fact, it was the first thing that came to my mind," Severus agreed. "The question is, who? And why?"

"I have plenty of enemies," Lucius admitted, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "I wouldn't even put it past that idiot Sirius, thinking he's being funny."

"I don't think so, Lucius," Severus said. He stopped short. Had he defended Sirius Black? Had hell frozen over without his knowledge? And more words were set to tumble from his mouth while he listened to himself stand up for the dog boy. "While he was his usual arsehole self when I took the Wolfsbane to Henry and Charlotte, I didn't detect any hint of underlying satisfaction. I'm thinking it may have been Greyback."

"Greyback? Why would he?"

"His pack, Lucius," Severus said, shaking his head. "He might have gone searching for them. You had Marcus—and along that vein, it's very fortunate Marcus had already left when Greyback showed up to terrorize your children."

The temperature of the air appeared to drop ten degrees in the room. Lucius got up slowly, his countenance stricken. "What are you talking about?"

Merlin's muddy britches, hadn't anyone told him? Severus had a distinct desire to shield himself about now, as the cloudy expression of astonished ire on Malfoy's face boded ill. And oh, goody—Narcissa would be pissed at him for spilling the story. This day just got better and better.

In his calmest, most soothing tone, he said, "I suppose Narcissa didn't want to worry you while you're stuck in here. They're all fine, but Greyback showed up in the garden yesterday, got the drop on Draco, and tried to bite the children. Ladon had another episode of accidental magic—nearly choked the werewolf to death. You'd have been proud. Draco took the kids to Andromeda's, where Greyback cannot enter."

"Oh, my God," Lucius breathed, sinking once more onto the bed, running his hands agitatedly through his hair. This could not be happening. He'd been gone one day, and already his family was in danger…surprisingly this time, not because of him. "You're absolutely sure they're alright and safe?"

"Yes. The Black blood wards will not allow Greyback or anyone else not of the family inside."

All of a sudden Lucius erupted, slamming his fist on the bed. "That son of a bitch! How dare he strike at my children! I'll kill him, I'll hack his hairy, repulsive self into tiny pieces and feed them to the fish in my pond! I'll—"

"That probably isn't the kind of thing you want to announce in this particular venue," Severus cautioned him. For all they knew, aurors could be listening to every word they spoke. "If Greyback is indeed responsible for Shacklebolt's disappearance, I fear the Minister may be already dead. Last night was the full moon…"

"In which case no one should begrudge me taking vengeance," Lucius asserted, his lips pinched into an angry white line.

"I would that things worked that way," lamented the Potions master. "By the way, Wendolph said to ask you if you need anything. He'd come himself, but you know his aversion to this place, and now that he's adopted the boy, he spends most of his free time at home."

Gobsmacked, Lucius stared at his friend once more. "He's adopted the boy? When did this happen? And why am I always the last to find out anything? He's my friend, not yours!"

Smirking wryly, Severus noted, "You're under arrest for abducting the Minister, and _that's_ what you're upset about? Perhaps you should focus on the immediate problem."

"Speaking of which, do you honestly think that filthy excuse for a human won't seek you out, Severus?" Lucius shot back. "He may be nearly brain dead, but he's got enough sense to know you must be making the Wolfsbane. Not many Potions masters are skilled at it. And if you're making it, you're carrying it to the children."

"I've taken the precaution of setting up blood wards round my home, as well," said Severus. He didn't think he needed to mention that he'd taught Aline the werewolf killing curse invented by Lord Voldemort. Lucius knew him well enough to guess that. "We are being very vigilant."

"Good." Lucius got up from the bed again and commenced to pacing about the room, then slowed to a stop, staring into space. He badly wanted to plot Greyback's horrifically torturous death, only Severus was right: they may well have an audience. Could he absolutely count on his friends to help him hunt down the monster? Dolph and Rab would likely take part, especially now that Timothy was part of Dolph's family and a target of Greyback. Nott was probably a 'no'; Fidelia would balk at him running after a dangerous werewolf when he had his own children to think of. He'd put forth the query and find out notwithstanding. Marshal—yes, Marshal would delight in this, wouldn't he? Nevertheless, for now, he'd have to content himself with silent plans, until freedom made them a reality…

"Lucius?" Severus snapped his fingers in front of the man's face. "I said they're making me leave now."

"Oh. Sorry. Thank you for coming, and for filling me in on things I missed," Lucius said distractedly.

Severus merely nodded. He knew that look. Lucius was up to something, and he had the sickening feeling he was going to be dragged into werewolf hunting very soon. For some odd reason, it didn't appeal to him. Could it be the near-death experience when he was a lad? Or the fact that Greyback was a raving madman even when he wasn't in wolf form? Yet more irrelevancy. Hadn't Lucius been there for him when Bayly had been kidnapped by Dolohov? And a hundred other times in his life? Whatever the case, Lucius was his brother, and he'd stand by his side come hell or high water. It's what brothers did.

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"Alice, can you hear me?" asked the mediwitch at St. Mungo's.

The witch nodded dumbly, her eyes glazed over. From his chair beside her, Frank nudged her and whispered, "Answer."

"Frank, please don't touch her or talk to her," instructed the mediwitch. "She needs to focus on me alone during hypnosis."

"Fine," he said sulkily. He first put his hands in his lap, then crossed his arms to show his displeasure.

"Alice, I want you to go back in time, try to remember as far back as you can. Can you see yourself as a girl?" asked the mediwitch.

Alice squinched up her face, eyes shut tightly. After several seconds, she said, "No, I can't. I'm an adult…I was always an adult."

"Everyone was a child at one time," insisted the witch. "Can you see your parents?"

"I don't have parents," Alice intoned in an odd little sing-song. "It's just me…and Frank. He has a mother, you know. I wonder what it's like to have a mother."

The mediwitch shook her head, grimacing. "Think of Neville. Remember back to when he was a baby. You _are_ his mother."

Alice cocked her head, smiling slightly. "He'd make a cute baby, wouldn't he? But no, I can't be his mum. He's always been an adult since I've known him."

"She can't remember anything," Frank finally burst out. "Why don't you try me? Maybe I can do better."

"It's not a contest, and you'll get a turn as well," said the healer. She noted a triumphant smirk on the man's face. She turned back to her patient for another round of questioning.

From the corner of the room where she'd been sitting quietly, observing the proceedings, Aline got up and tiptoed to the door. She couldn't watch this any longer. Alice didn't recall anything before the day White Elk had healed her body, and Aline highly doubted Frank was going to do any better. It was simply too depressing to witness.

As she closed the door with a tiny click behind her, she whirled round right into a handsome blond man in garish clothing strolling down the corridor. She drew back with a gasp. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Oh, no problem at all, my lovely dear," quipped the man, winking and smiling at her. His teeth were perfectly straight and white, almost glaringly so. "Do you live here?"

"No. I was visiting some friends…well, not exactly. I mean, they used to live here, but they don't now. It's complicated."

"Isn't it?" he said, nodding in commiseration. "I used to live here. No, wait. I still do!" He burst out laughing. After a long sigh, he continued, "They tell me I used to live at a place called Hogwarts—isn't that just the most dreadful name?" he said conspiratorially, winking at her again.

"Yes, it is a strange name," she agreed. "I work there now."

"Really? Is it a hospital?"

"No, it's a school," she replied, backing up a bit till she hit the wall behind her. "I'm the Potions mistress."

"Potions, you say," he repeated, mulling it over as if he'd never heard the term. His eyes lit up, then darkened. "I can't quite figure out why, but I get a queer sensation—a memory, if you will—of a thoroughly nasty, snarky, black-haired bloke when you say that word. I find it rather intimidating. How odd."

Aline suppressed the urge to laugh in his face. Yes, she knew exactly who this man was talking about, and found it hard to argue with the description, especially since she'd felt the same when she first met Severus. No, that wasn't true. She'd not been intimidated, she'd downright hated Severus as an incarnate evil being. "Are you perchance Gilderoy Lockhart?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, beaming at her. "I'm not quite sure who I am, I can't recall, you know. But a lot of people tell me that's it—and I've seen several books with my picture on the cover. Would you like to come to my room and see them? I look devilishly handsome in the third one." He winked again, as an eerie shiver ran up Aline's spine.

"No, thank you. As a matter of fact, I happened to marry that nasty, snarky, black-haired bloke. I doubt he'd like the thought of me joining you in your room."

"Oh! Oh, dear me. I had no idea," Gilderoy gushed, shaking his head and backing away, hands extended outward in surrender. "I'm not coming onto you, if that's what you think! I only wanted to show you my books—and my collection of mirrors. I have a gilded one from Russia."

Aline smiled at him. "Maybe another time. I've got to be on my way. It was nice meeting you, Gilderoy."

"You, too—what's your name?" he asked, extending his hand. She took it, and a flash ran through her mind.

"Aline," she answered, puzzled. Normally when she touched a new person, the sensations and feeling and visions overwhelmed her; this time, she got no more than images of the man combing his hair and flossing his teeth in front of a mirror. If what Severus had told her about Gilderoy was accurate, she ought not be surprised, as the man tended to be incredibly shallow even before losing his memory.

"Good day then, Miss Aline," he said, bowing. He rose, winked once more, and turned to be on his way, swaggering down the hall with a spring in his step, cheerfully greeting the orderlies and healers he passed.

Aline watched him till he rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor. Gilderoy Lockhart had been a patient here for years. If this was what the Longbottoms had to look forward to in the way of healing, what was the point? The healers had already tried every trick of wizardry and witchcraft, and were down to using muggle remedies. Was there any hope? If so, she wasn't finding it. Without saying goodbye to the couple, she spun on her heel and headed for the exit. Neville was due in a few minutes, he'd take them home.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It had been too long since she'd come to check up on her snakes before heading for home; as such, Aline entered the Slytherin common room, taking in everything in one sweeping gaze. Several older students sat by the fireplace in the biggest, softest chairs, studying or chatting. On the rug in front of them, two first year girls were asking each other questions for a test the following day. At the two tables nearby, half of the Quidditch team were laughing and boasting about how they'd crush Gryffindor in the coming match. Between the posts near the stairway leading to the dormitories, a young couple snogged shamelessly, ignoring the rest of the world.

"Mistress Snape!" squealed one of the girls on the floor, jumping up to come give her a hug. Aline patted her head affectionately. Not to be left out, the other girl came in for her hug as well.

"How come you never visit anymore?" whined the other.

"I'm sorry, little one. I'll do better," Aline promised. She looked over at the couple by the posts. "Freya, Tobin, aren't you afraid of sucking each other's faces off?" she teased.

The two poked their heads round, blushing. Joining hands, they came into the room to sit very close together on one of the couches. The Quidditch team raised hands in greeting to their Head of House, though they didn't interrupt their conversation, save when one said to Aline, "Are you coming to watch the Gryffindorks get splattered, ma'am?"

"I wouldn't miss it, Seth," she answered, smiling. How she loved these children, how wonderful it felt to be with them. "I look forward to winning the cup this year."

"I don't know, Mistress Snape. I think Ravenclaw has a good shot at the cup this year."

"Bullsh—" Seth began, before turning to the insolent voice and discovering it to be Bayly. The word cut off immediately. Flustered, he amended, "I mean, I don't think so, Professor."

Grinning, Bayly sauntered over. "Mistress Snape, I'm surprised to find you here. I thought you'd gone home."

"I miss my snakes," she confessed, to which most of the faces in the room lit up. "I need to spend more time with them."

"Yeah!" shouted the two little girls, who still crowded next to her.

Bayly merely smiled. He made a habit of checking on the children at least twice a day, morning and evening, and occasionally spot checks during the day. He knew and loved every one of the students, and could hardly blame Aline for feeling the same. Still, he knew her well, and something was off; he detected a note of sadness in her tone, a certain despondency in her countenance.

"Alright, Slytherins, move off now. I need to speak to Miss Aline." Grudgingly the children moved on, and he pulled Aline over to the stairwell. "What's wrong?"

"Aside from everything?" she said, half smiling, looking like she meant to cry. "I suppose that's a tad dramatic. I just came from the hospital…it's not working, Bayly. No matter what the healers do, it makes no difference. They've used every counterspell for memory charms, every potion they can think of, every muggle technique they've studied. Healing their bodies was all well and good, but without their memories, Neville will never really have parents."

Bayly took her hand in his, squeezing gently. "He appreciates all you, and Professor Snape, and White Elk have done. So do Alice and Frank."

"It doesn't feel like enough," she insisted.

_Only because you're obsessive to the point of being semi-neurotic, and can't bear to leave anything undone_, Bayly mused inwardly, sadly. "I wish we had Oblivion Wine."

"I don't think getting drunk is the solution," she said, eyeing him strangely.

Bayly laughed suddenly, causing heads to turn. "You've never heard of it?" She shook her head, and he shrugged sheepishly. "Oh. Well, it's a legend they teach in Advanced Potions at Durmstrang. It's called The Wine of Forty Herbs, said to restore memories even to the most severely damaged. As usual, there's a parable to go with it…but it's just a fairy tale."

"You learned of Life Water and Death Water at Durmstrang, too, and believed them to be a legend until it was proven real," Aline responded, becoming animated. The waters had been used to bring Narcissa back to life, as well as Sirius and Regulus Black. "Maybe it's true, maybe we can acquire some of this wine."

"Aline, I'm sorry I mentioned it. I've never seen it, nor heard of it actually being used. If it existed, don't you think the healers would have known?" Bayly implored her, desperately backpedaling to dampen her enthusiasm. He hated to get her hopes up only to have them dashed again.

"_In vino veritas_…in wine, there is truth," she mused aloud. "Dimitar Tanassov is a medical doctor as well as a Potions master. If he taught you that it exists, I have to believe it does. It can't hurt to talk to Tanassov about it, right?"

"I suppose," he said, not with any fervor.

Aline cupped his face in one palm. "You help us so much more than you realize. I hope this is one of those times."

To the teasing 'oooohs' of the students observing the intimate action, Bayly turned his head languidly and replied, "Oh, shut up."

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Crash_. In the stairwell leading to the girls' dormitory, they heard the commotion, then a soft moaning, and hurried to investigate. Inside, against the stone wall, lay a seventh year boy, blood trickling from his temple. Bayly helped him sit up, though upon spying the Heads of House the boy developed a swift look of panic.

"What were you doing in the girls' area?" asked Bayly.

"Uh…well, I…er…fell," he stammered.

Aline picked up where Bayly had left off. "I think the question was why were you trying to ascend the girls' stairs, Jonas." Every student was given an opening lecture on the first day of school, including the fact that Professor Snape had long ago charmed the staircases to prevent travel of a boy or girl to the opposing gender's dormitory. The stairs would turn into a slippery slide, swiftly carrying down the offender. Only parents and teachers were given a pass.

Jonas stared at the floor, not responding lest he incriminate himself. It had been a joke; he'd been dared to crawl up the slide, holding onto the rail, enter one of the girl's rooms, and steal some knickers—not something he thought prudent to tell the Heads of House.

Bayly hoisted him to his feet. "I'll take care of this, Aline. He needs to see Poppy, then maybe a trip to the Headmaster, if he refuses to speak up." Legilimency had a way of seeing through things very clearly.

With the boy protesting his innocence, Bayly waved to Aline and escorted the youth out. Aline took her leave of the children, excitement building in her chest. Tomorrow she'd contact Tanassov and ask for a meeting. If anyone knew about this Oblivion Wine, Tanassov was the man.

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**March 10, 2001 (right before dusk)**

"Hey, Giles! Look!" The little boy approached the bush cautiously, bending down to determine if he was seeing what he thought he was.

Another lad, somewhat older, stood beside the railway tracks, grimacing. "Mum said to get home! I don't want no trouble. Come on."

The other, ignoring the order, picked up a nearby branch and proceeded to poke at the object. "You gotta see this. I think it's a dead bloke."

"Don't be stupid." Intrigued nonetheless, Giles put on a martyr-like expression and stomped up to the bushes lining the rails.

He pushed aside his brother, then some leaves to reveal garments with bright hues of purple and yellow he didn't recall ever seeing in nature. An eerie shade of red spattered the clothing; along the man's side, the entire garment was drenched in the same red fluid, and it looked still wet. Eyes widening, holding his breath, he looked directly at the brown, swollen face caked in clotted blood and dirt. Long slashes crisscrossed the visage—the entire body, in fact. This was bad. They didn't need this. He straightened up and grabbed his brother's arm.

"Let's go, Davey."

"What about him?" asked the younger boy.

"If he's dead, he don't much care, does he?" retorted Giles. He yanked at Davey's sleeve, but the lad refused to budge. "Whoever did this could come back. Come on!"

"Help me," came a whispered voice.

The two boys whirled on the man, to find his eyes partially open. They screamed in unison and bolted away.


	80. Which Wizard?

15

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 80 (Which Wizard?)

**December 21, 1937**

It was finally quiet in Hogwarts. The students had gone home on holiday yesterday, leaving Tom and a handful of others at the school. For Tom this proved a special treat, as he'd never been away from the orphanage at Christmas time before, and being that he cared nothing for anyone at the orphanage, he didn't mind one iota that he'd be separated from them.

He meandered along an outside corridor, enjoying the feel of the icy wind on his face, his neck thoroughly protected by the long, warm Slytherin scarf, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. It was nice to walk about without running into hundreds of loud, annoying students, to be alone with his thoughts. Speaking of which, this day meant something, he was sure of it…but what? The notion niggled in the farthest corners of his mind, and he angled his face up at the gloomy sky to ponder. It was already getting dark…dark. It was the shortest day of the year.

The winter solstice! He grinned as he continued walking. Yes, now he remembered. One year ago today, he and the other orphans had made a field trip to Stonehenge. The teacher in charge of the trip had informed them of a recent renovation of the monument in the 1920s, one of many to come, she was sure. The instructor had let the children play on the fallen stones and run freely in the area, and they all seemed to be having a good time.

Tom hadn't been interested in crawling over the rocks like the others. He'd stalked around the circle, reverently stroking these prehistoric monoliths. He'd aligned himself with the stones, peering between two pillars at where the sun had risen that day; he wished they'd got there at dawn to see it. He'd listened attentively when the teacher explained about the Druids who held ceremonies here, who had probably been here this very morning. Druids—ancient witches, she'd said. At the time, Tom had been captivated, though skeptical. Their silly rituals couldn't make them witches any more than plain old wishing could. Magic wasn't real, everyone knew that…even if he _could_ do special things with his mind.

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**March 11, 2001**

_Dec. 21, 1937_

_ Today is the winter solstice—at least, I think it is. Today or tomorrow, for sure. Last year at this time I went to visit Stonehenge. It was awesome, truly. It made me feel somehow small, as if I were a cog in a larger design. I felt like I belonged there, like I was part of history. The teacher spoke of Druids, of how they were magicians of old, and how some people think they built Stonehenge. I don't think they did, I don't know why. I just think it. I feel like there is some special significance to this day, the shortest of the year, the longest night. The Druids accept that; they hold ceremonies on days like this and the summer solstice._

_ It's funny to think of now, but at the time I didn't believe the ancient Druids could be witches or wizards because I supposed such people didn't exist. To think I believed I didn't exist! And that in spite of my remarkable abilities at an early age. Now I wonder if perhaps modern Druids are some form of wizards that we don't fully understand. More likely they are simply muggles trying to play witch and wizard._

_ Maybe I ought to research them more fully. If they are genuine, I may be able to learn from them when I leave Hogwarts. Surely there is more knowledge about magic than here within these walls. Druids have always believed oak to be sacred, and the mistletoe of oak to be an antidote to all poisons. That would be one step in assuring I never die—at least not from poison!_

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Severus scratched his quill across another paper in a prolonged series of etchings that seemed to go on forever. From her position at the front table, bent over Tom's diary to read without fear of being interrupted—due in no small part to every student's reluctance to be in Snape's presence unless required—Therese lifted her eyes to watch him. He was correcting essays, and she could only imagine what dreadful things he must be saying. That scowl, combined with his head-shaking and muttered epithets he supposed she couldn't hear, didn't bode well for that class, did it?

Snape paused after the first paragraph, flabbergasted and disgusted. He dipped his pen in the red ink he'd stolen—er, borrowed from Aline's desk drawer, and attacked the paper anew.

Finally, when he'd decided it was a hopeless waste of time, he proceeded directly to the bottom of the page, where he scrawled: _Mr. Hynes, if I ever get the urge to allow you to accompany me on an excursion for unicorn hair—nay, any outing into the Forbidden Forest—you have my express, written permission to __avada kedavra__ me in the head. It would be less painful than reading the tripe you pass off as research, and undoubtedly save us both a world of agony—you from being ripped limb from limb, and myself from being incarcerated for same. P.S. In case you are too obtuse to deduce this for yourself, you receive a Troll mark for this farce of an essay. _

"Severus, are you busy?" Aline stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and walked up the aisle to his desk. Whatever his answer, she had to speak to him now. Cocking her head and squinting slightly, she turned the ink bottle around to read the colour name. "Is this my ink?"

"No," he answered calmly, smiling up at her.

"Since when do you use Bubblegum Red?" she asked, giving him a knowing smirk.

"I was saying that I'm not busy," Severus replied, smirking right back. Two could play that game. "What do you need?"

Aline twisted to look at Therese, who quickly lowered her head to pretend she wasn't blatantly listening to their conversation. Sliding her wand from its wrist holster, Aline discreetly put up a silencing charm around the couple. "I'm leaving for Durmstrang in a little bit. Neville is coming with me. Are you sure you won't come along, too?"

"For what reason? I'm not involved in this, Aline."

"Yes, you are! Alright, you never wanted to be, and you've done your damnedest to distance yourself, but…I don't get it. Why are you so adamant that you not be included in healing Alice and Frank? Neville isn't going to press charges, you know that."

Severus set the parchments on the corner of the desk, pushed back his chair, and stood up. "Do you really want to get into it here, in front of a student?"

"She can't hear us."

He sighed, reaching up to shove his hair back from his face. Even now the softness, the silkiness of it surprised him. After so many years of greasy locks, he wondered if he'd ever completely get used to his hair the way it was now. "You don't get it; that's right. You've seen the images and visions of what I've done, what I've witnessed as a Death Eater. I don't like being reminded of it. Is that so hard to comprehend?"

"You don't need to be insulting," said Aline, hurt by his tone. "And you aren't the one who injured the Longbottoms."

"No—my friends are!" he retorted, shaking his head and tilting his face up to the ceiling, as if in supplication to a deity. Heaving another heavy sigh, he dropped his head, covering his eyes with one hand, then dragged his palm down the length of his face. "I don't want to see Alice and Frank every time I look at Rab or Dolph. They are more a part of my life than the Longbottoms ever were or ever will be, and to be constantly reminded that they were the ones who helped torture the Longbottoms into insanity makes it difficult."

"Rab is the one who asked me to find a cure," Aline said in a small voice, as if her husband weren't fully aware of that fact.

"I know that. But it prompts so many memories, not only of this deed, but of so many things they did, and what Lucius did…and most of all, what I had to do." He cast a pleading look her way, one he'd not be caught dead showing another living soul. "I want to forget. Can't you let me forget?"

She took his hand over the desk, maneuvering herself around to stand next to him, where she laid her head on his chest. His heart beat strong, though faster than normal because of his anguish. One of her arms slipped round his waist, then the other, till she was hugging him fiercely. "I'm sorry. I've been so focused on what I'm doing I didn't think it might affect you this way."

"It's alright, love. I have full confidence in you; if anyone can fix the Longbottoms, you'll find the way…even if it involves tracking the cure to the ends of the Earth," he added, smiling down at her, his arms enveloping her. She looked up and smiled back.

He tapped her on the bum and whispered, "Therese is watching us. Should we give her a show?"

"You're terrible!" she cried, laughing. But she did plant a strong kiss on his lips before stepping away. "And so am I."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"It's dark in here," Marshal remarked out of the blue. As he leaned forward to pour himself another glass of wine from the bottle on the coffee table, flickering shadows danced on the faces of all those gathered in the semi-circle around the fireplace. "I feel like a mole."

"Look like one, too," said Rab, laughing. He drained his glass and _accio_'d the bottle to refill it. They'd just begun discussing Greyback after catching up with those comrades they saw only rarely now. He wished they could simply have a pleasant conversation instead of talking about the werewolf, even if Greyback was the reason for coming.

"Sure your kids don't want some?" teased Marshal to Snape. "What's with bringing them, anyway? Trying to make them Death Eaters early?"

Severus, who sat on the sofa beside his twins, curled his lip in a sneer. "They'd be as competent as you, despite their age."

"Aline insisted he keep the children in his sight the entire time she's gone. As I understand it, she made him promise," Lucius offered, smirking to himself. Typically _he_ was the one being taunted by his comrades for having an overbearing wife; it was nice to have the shoe on someone else's foot.

At least Narcissa hadn't put up a fuss when he'd left for this conference. In fact, she'd not left the children's sides since Greyback's attack. He couldn't truly blame Severus for bringing the kids; if he failed to keep his promise, Aline would know…she always knew because of that damned clairvoyance. He liked Aline very much, he really did, but how Severus could live with a woman reading his secrets day and night was a mystery to him.

"Whatever," Marshal shot back at Snape. "It's still freaking dark in here."

As a rule, Dolph tended to keep his house darker than it ought to be, mainly by keeping the drapes drawn to prevent intrusive eyes. Now, at night with his old companions gathered round his living room, drinking wine and planning mayhem like the old days, it seemed perfectly natural. And exciting. As much as he loved being a firefighter, and the exhilaration and accolades that came with it, a part of him missed his old life. While reluctant to admit it even to himself, he looked forward to pursuing Greyback. There was something about hunting a person that nothing else could match.

"Timothy, come down," he said. Although he faced away from the staircase, the tiniest of squeaks reached his ears, and he knew his son too well to believe it was just the creaking of an old house. It bothered him slightly; children were supposed to obey, and parents were supposed to make them obey. That was the way he'd been raised.

There was a hesitant pause, then the quiet plodding of adolescent feet. Tim stopped at the bottom of the stairs, head down but eyes roaming about to examine the assembly of guests. He dreaded being punished, and even more so the thought of being punished in front of all these men he knew—Mr. Malfoy, Professor Snape, Mr. Marshal, Uncle Rab. Wringing his hands, he forced himself to round the chair his father sat in, and stood like a statue in front of him.

"What did I tell you about eavesdropping on me?" Dolph said in a quiet tone with undercurrents of menace.

"Not to," Tim whispered.

"Yet here you are."

Tim nodded, his head barely managing to bob up and down once. Tears formed in his eyes, but he would not cry, not unless Dad hit him, anyway. If it came to that, he didn't think he'd be able to stop himself. "You're talking about me," he said softly. His lips had begun to tremble. "Every time you get together with your friends and don't want me around, it's because of me."

"He's not wrong, Dolph," Rab interjected, unwilling to let the situation escalate. He doubted very highly that his brother would ever hurt Timothy as their own father used to batter Rab; nonetheless, he couldn't bear the all-too-familiar tension. "It concerns him as well as you."

"That doesn't give him leave to defy me, Rab," Dolph retorted.

"No, it doesn't," Jorab agreed. "He's your son, you decide what to do, but if it were up to me, I'd let him stay. He may be able to offer some insight on Greyback."

Dolph paused to consider, and as he did so he regarded his brother from across the small space. The cloaked expression of alarm in Rab's eyes was something he'd seen far too often when they were boys. Was Rabby scared he was going to beat the tar out of Timothy? Did he have so little faith in his own brother? Then again, if Rabby was judging by his own upbringing, it was understandable he'd fear for the kid.

He gave a minute shrug. "You can stay, but we are going to talk about your behaviour later, young man." Oh my God, that sounded like Dad! No wonder Rabby was on edge.

_Thump. Thump. Thump_. The group of ex-Death Eaters froze in unison. All discussion ceased. Every eye turned to the door, then in a heartbeat wands appeared in each man's hand. Dolph got up, shoved Tim down on the floor in front of the sofa, and crossed the room silently, as his friends slid behind furniture, wands pointed at the door. Severus bolted to the kitchen, juggling his children while trying to keep aim on the possible enemy at the door. Dolph flattened himself along the wall and slowly slid up close to the door where he could lean over and spy out the peephole.

He let out a breath and uttered, "Shit!" He flung open the door and Nott stepped in, looking innocently about. "You could've been blasted, you know," Dolph griped.

Noting the wands trained on him, Nott quipped, "So I'm late; I didn't know it was punishable by death."

Snape came out of the kitchen, one boy in each arm, and sank down on the sofa. "Why did you say you weren't coming?" he demanded.

"Fidelia doesn't want me endangering the family by showing my face around," Nott admitted. He sauntered in and took a seat beside his friend on the couch. "I sneaked out anyway, but since our house isn't hooked to the floo network, I had to apparate in. Hey, Sev, if I'd known it was 'Bring Your Kid to a Death Eater Meeting Day', I'd have brought Missy along." He laughed at his own joke, as Severus rolled his eyes. "Can I hold one?"

Severus hoisted Aidan into the other wizard's arms; it wasn't the first time his children had met Nott, being that they were to be relatives as soon as Theo and Jacinta got around to marrying one another. "This is Aidan."

"I know," Nott said, though to be honest he had only been guessing. The little rugrats were so identical he sometimes wondered if their parents could really tell them apart. He smiled at the tyke and rubbed his nose on the baby's. Aidan cooed and drooled on the man's cloak, then leaned in and bit Nott on the tip of the nose. He yelped and yanked the child back, holding him at arm's length.

"Perhaps I should have mentioned he's teething," Snape drawled, smirking.

"Ya think?" exclaimed Nott.

"If we're done playing nanny, can we get back to the discussion?" asked Lucius sarcastically. And Nott had the audacity to call this a Death Eater Meeting? In what possible way did this travesty resemble anything they'd endured under Voldemort's reign? He wasn't in the mood for chit-chat and lightheartedness, he wanted to get this over with. Wasn't it bad enough they had to find the damned werewolf to begin with? And that he'd got cinders all through his hair from this stupid, filthy floo? Honestly, would it kill Dolph to have it cleaned? What was his point again? Pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the migraine he felt coming on, he said, "Nott, we've just begun trying to establish the best course of action where Greyback is concerned."

"Wouldn't that be to kill him?" asked Nott.

"Thank you! That's what I said!" exclaimed Marshal, nodding emphatically and giving Lucius the I-told-you-so glare.

The rest of the men had returned to their seats, wands returned to their pockets—or in Lucius' case, his cane—and drinks in their hands. Tim had perched at the far end of the sofa beside Snape and was poking playfully at Adriel, who giggled back and babbled something at him. Rab took a sip of his wine as he studied Malfoy. Lucius' war strategies had proven to be hit and miss where effectiveness was concerned, as evidenced by the Department of Mysteries debacle, though he could talk a good game and threaten with the best of them. He let emotion get the best of him too often, made his decisions based on anger rather than rational thought. Then again, he'd helped out Bayly with those blokes in Italy who'd poisoned Gloria, and that had worked like a charm…and his cold, cruel fury at the goblins who threw Narcissa through the Veil had aided the wizards in obtaining information. He idly wondered how this particular plot would play out.

His gaze fell on his brother, and he sucked in a dismayed breath. He knew that subtle look on Dolph's face, the slightly-less-bored expression he'd worn so often before raids and missions in the past. Had he been foolish in believing his brother had changed? After all, he'd adopted a _muggle_, for crying out loud! If that wasn't a change of heart, what was? To be fair, Greyback posed a threat to Timothy, so it was perhaps normal to be eager to dispose of him. He took another sip of wine and pressed himself to the back of his seat. He still didn't like it, though.

"We all agree that Greyback's likely to die," Severus was saying. He shifted Adriel into Tim's arms, and addressed the group. "It's the manner of apprehending him that remains in question. Do we want him alive to interrogate him?"

"Interrogate about what?" asked Nott.

"Shacklebolt," Lucius answered, spitting the name out like a bad taste in his mouth. "He is missing, and I've already been blamed for it—though fortunately I have an airtight alibi in Tanassov and his war-hero wife. If we can ascertain where he is, assuming he's alive, we might yet earn ourselves some points with the Ministry and the general population."

"You mean _you_ might earn points," Marshal corrected him dryly. "The rest of us are trying to keep out of the limelight."

"Semantics, Marshal," Lucius responded, waving a dismissive hand. "Greyback sealed his fate when he attacked my children. Getting information from him to further my place in society is a mere bonus."

"The nagging question of the day is where do we find him? He's not exactly standing on the street corner holding a neon sign," observed Severus. The rest merely turned blank visages his way, indicating their unfamiliarity with the term and prompting him to roll his eyes and growl, "Never mind."

Dolph first glanced at his brother, then at his son. They'd spoken to the boy yesterday about Greyback, how he felt about the werewolf assaulting toddlers and trying to steal Marcus, and Timothy's dread of being taken himself. He felt confident his son held no affection for the brute, and would do whatever he could to help his new Dad find the beast before it was too late, before one or more of his packmates were kidnapped or hurt, or before other children were mauled.

"Timothy, do you know how to find the place where you lived with Greyback? It's possible he returned there."

Tim swung his face toward the man, both surprised and pleased to be included. "Um…no. Not from here. I only know how to get there from places nearby where we lived."

"Lovely," muttered Marshal. "Does anybody think that's helpful?"

"Shut it," hissed Rabby. "Timothy, didn't you say before that there were great stones there?"

"Yeah, Uncle Rab. There was this big circle of rocks, really huge…we used to go there sometimes when Greyback wasn't around, when there weren't other people there."

Lucius had blanched even whiter than his usual pale complexion. Stonehenge? Avebury? That disgusting werewolf Greyback had created his werewolf army in Wiltshire, where Lucius' manor and family were located? "What did the circle look like? Were there rocks stacked across upon large pillars?"

"Yes, in the one place," Tim answered, nodding excitedly. "In the other, it was bigger and more spread out. We kind of liked it more 'cause you can wander around without being bothered."

All the men exchanged knowing glances. If the werewolf children had access to both of these monuments, which were roughly forty kilometers apart, and they roamed about freely while still living in one location, it suggested they had lived somewhere between the two sites, perhaps east or west of them. Greyback's army had resided easily within fifty kilometers of Lucius' house the whole time. An unsettling thought, to be sure.

"It looks like we've got a lead," said Lucius, barely containing his elation. "Tomorrow Timothy can show us to the spot, and if Greyback is there…" With his finger he made the motion of shooting with a wand.

"And if he's not there?" asked Marshal.

"I suppose we'll need to take turns staking out the place," returned Lucius. "It's better than no idea where to begin, isn't it?"

"He can smell you," said Tim in a small voice. The wizards turned to him again. "If you're nearby, he can smell it. You'd have to stay far away and stand downwind so you don't leave your scent."

"Thank you, Timothy. That's important to know," said Dolph, making the lad grin. Apparently this was going to be more of a challenge than he'd thought. Good.

"We are shooting to kill, right?" asked Nott, just to clarify.

"No—not unless necessary," Lucius answered. "We can eliminate him when I've got the information I want."

"Lucius, a thought," Severus interrupted. "If you turn him in to the Ministry, they'll make him talk, make him confess to abducting Shacklebolt. It would behoove you to clear your name completely, would it not? He would be returned to Azkaban, and you'd be due an apology from the Ministry." Not least on his mind was the fact that, to date, Lucius had never taken a human life…he sorely hated to contemplate how things might change in his friend once that record had been broken.

Lucius pulled a twisted face that showed unmistakable disapproval of this line of discussion, all the more because Severus had a point. The werewolf should die, it was only right for what he'd done to Lucius' children. And yet, they hadn't been injured, and catching the bastard would help rectify the situation and clear the Malfoy name…and an apology from the Ministry sounded mighty enticing. He heaved an irritated sigh. "I suppose so."

"So we _don't_ get to kill him?" said Marshal, deflated. "Why don't you make up your minds? Merlin, you're worse than women deciding what to wear!"

Dolph coughed a bit to send the attention his way. "Let's say we try to capture the animal alive. Circumstances change, you do what you need to do. If Greyback ends up dead, it's his own bloody fault."

"What are you saying, Dolph? That you'd prefer to kill him?" asked Rabby.

"I'm saying we don't know what we're walking into, Rabby," replied his brother. "I aim to protect myself, not him. I expect you to do the same." The look he shot at Rabby, the way he cocked his head and stared with pleading eyes said, 'No, I didn't forget your vow never to use the killing curse again. You've got plenty of other potent curses to fall back on, and if he were to die, you shouldn't feel bad about it. He's worse than either of us ever was.' Had Timothy not been present, he'd have said it aloud.

Jorab acknowledged his brother's unspoken words with a grim nod. Although Dolph hadn't said so, he knew the man loved Timothy and was concerned for his safety; Rab felt a strong fondness for the lad, too. Was it wrong to protect the boy, and all the other children or future victims, by disposing of an evil, vicious werewolf? No, it wasn't. In fact, it probably was the right thing to do. It seemed strange to put those two things together, death and right, yet sometimes that's where they belonged.

"So it's settled," Lucius said. "Tomorrow we'll meet here and try to find Greyback's old haunt. I'll see you then."

He got up and headed for the fireplace before remembering he wouldn't be able to enter Black Manor, by his own request. Andy had offered to set the floo to allow him in, and he'd refused on the off-chance Greyback might hold him hostage and try to gain entry. He'd need to go home, send an owl to Narcissa, and wait for her to come fetch him so he could spend the night with his family.

He took a pinch of floo powder and murmured, "Malfoy Manor."

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The machine beeped its steady, annoying beep that signified the mangled black man in the bed was still breathing and his heart hadn't yet ceased to function. He'd beaten the odds and survived, despite the extreme loss of blood and extensive wounds, some of which the medical professionals had never witnessed in a patient. He had not, however, awakened; the doctors had offered slim hope for waking from the coma until his injuries had healed substantially, and even then it was a toss-up. The fact was, this unnamed man might never be conscious again.

A nurse walked up alongside Kingsley to take his temperature again. A fever was to be expected when the body had been so badly traumatized and was trying to heal; the lacerations alone, made by some filthy object, had introduced untold numbers of pathogens. Yet this patient remained astonishingly normal…or abnormal, as the case may be. She glanced at the monitor recording his blood pressure and pulse; for a man in such bad shape, not typical at all.

She raised the bedcover to look at his side. The stitched wound gaped back at her through the blood-tainted gauze. What could tear the flesh that way without leaving bruises elsewhere? Had she been a medi-witch, she'd have realized immediately that the man had splinched himself while apparating, probably because he'd been already so badly hurt. But she wasn't a witch, and she didn't believe in wizards and such silliness.

She straightened up and tucked his blanket around him once more. Red, swollen rings of abraded flesh showed on his wrists, although she knew they appeared also on the ankles—leftover marks from the manacles, she had been told. Why this bloke had been chained was also a mystery, since the authorities had been contacted, and they had no knowledge of an escaped prisoner. They surmised he'd been taken captive by a lunatic and tortured, reason unknown. They had no idea how close to the mark they were.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 12, 2001**

Greyback growled deep in his throat, a harsh, frightening sound. The house was empty, just like the last one! Brooke and Roger and their families had fled, leaving no trace of where they'd gone. That meant he'd either have to forget about them or capture whoever knew where they went and torture it out of them. Since he wasn't aware of who might know where they'd gone, that seemed a moot point.

He prowled slowly through the empty house, his steps echoing off the walls. Yesterday he'd tracked down some old werewolf buddies and had a nice chat with them. As luck had it, they'd read a while back in the _Daily Prophet_ that the Ministry had some to-do with werewolf children, and they gave him all the information they'd gleaned from the paper. One boy—Tim—had run off from the foster home he'd been placed in, and the Ministry had sent out a high alert for the public. They now presumed him to be dead, as no attacks had been reported on either of the full moons since his disappearance. Two of the children had been returned to their families; since Charlotte and Henry and Marcus no longer had families, that left only Brooke and Roger, and they were gone. He spat on the floor in fury.

If what his friends told him about Marcus was true, he could count that child a loss, too. He'd been adopted out to some Bulgarian at Durmstrang. The place was a veritable fortress, what with the students all knowing Dark Arts, and the new parents of Marcus no slouches, either. Combine that with whatever other strange magic he might encounter there, and he'd be lucky to leave alive.

That left only one pair of children, the siblings. Greyback pulled his lips back from his fangs in a frightening, wolfish smile. Charlotte and Henry were under the guardianship of none other than Harry freaking Potter! How special was that? He looked forward to this little meeting, and the utter shock and terror he'd see on the wonder-brat's face when he showed up at his door. He exited through the door he'd crashed in, stomped down the stairs, and apparated away to the last house on his list.


	81. Lost and Found

22

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 81 (Lost and Found)

**(A/N: I hate to be a nag, but last chapter fanfiction was having problems with the site and I believe many ppl did not get to read the chapter. Please make sure you have done so before reading this one! Thanks.)**

**June 1, 1978**

"My lord, I have wonderful news," Lucius began hesitantly, still wondering why Severus was here, and fervently hoping it didn't involve torturing the boy for some perceived fault—or worse, making _him_ torture the kid.

"Yes, Lucius?" said Voldemort, drawing out the 's' longer than his typical snake-like hiss.

"Master, I've accomplished the goal you set for me," Lucius explained, growing animated and grinning in spite of himself. "I've been appointed governor! I'll be able to oversee Hogwarts and Dumbledore!"

Severus nearly wrenched his neck he swung it so fast, though only a slight widening of his eyes betrayed his shock. He'd presumed it would take years to pander to enough people to acquire such a position. Then again, this was Lucius Malfoy: he'd been flattering and ingratiating himself with people since he was a young boy, and no matter what anyone might say, wealth speaks loud and clear.

For his part, Voldemort practically radiated satisfaction. His cruel mouth twisted upward at the corners and his red eyes lost a hint of their fierceness. "Excellent, Malfoy! Well done, my friend."

"Thank you, my lord," responded Lucius, inclining his head in acceptance of the praise.

"How did you manage it so quickly?"

Here Lucius stumbled. Rather than on merit, he'd used dark magic, for which the dark lord couldn't fault him, could he? Nevertheless, the truth was the only sensible course. "Last week the previous governor informed me that he thought I was wasting my time in pursuing the position, so I proved him wrong. I placed him under the Imperius and ordered him to resign and nominate me as his successor."

Voldemort positively exploded in roaring laughter—roaring cackles, at any rate. Severus stared over at his friend with a mixture of awe and disbelief. The Imperius was an Unforgivable Curse…but then, so was the Cruciatus, and he'd used that plenty of times. Still, the audacity of the man to use it on someone of such high office! He felt a whole new respect for Lucius developing on the spot.

"Lucius, my friend, my loyal servant, I am extremely pleased with your tidings, especially as our friend Severus will be leaving Hogwarts in another week or so. This couldn't have come at a better time."

"The pleasure is mine, master," said Lucius, literally basking in the unaccustomed commendation.

All at once Voldemort turned on Snape, who'd put out of his mind that he was here for a reason other than watching Lucius proclaim his success. "Severus, I've summoned you for a report. I set you to spy on Dumbledore, yet I've heard nothing from you." He didn't look even vaguely happy anymore.

Severus ducked his head automatically as the cold red eyes landed on him. "Master, I haven't much to tell. I was only able once to sneak into Dumbledore's office. He has a pensieve."

"A pensieve?" The dark lord leaned forward slightly. "These are not common. Did you look into it?"

"Yes, my lord, but I had very little time. I saw Dumbledore with Grindelwald, they were discussing ruling the world and subjugating or killing Muggles 'for the greater good', they said."

Voldemort's interest had become outright astonishment. He narrowed his eyes to slits. "Do you have any idea when this occurred?" If it were recent, he'd have two rivals, a very powerful team, to overcome.

"They were young, about my age," Severus said, unaware of the almost panicked musings of the dark lord.

A long hiss of air emanated from the master. "That hypocritical old bastard. He would condemn me for thinking the same things he did—or does, for all we know," he growled. "Make it a point to use the pensieve again before you must leave Hogwarts. And try to find something _valuable_ to the cause."

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**March 12, 2001**

_June 1, 1978_

_ Today I had interesting news on two fronts. Lucius has been appointed a governor overseeing Hogwarts, as per my order—and he used the Imperius to do it! If I were the doting type, I'd say I was proud of the boy. He's learning. This is fortuitous, of course, because Severus is soon to graduate and leave Hogwarts, and no one would have been there to watch over that codger, Dumbledore. Now a Death Eater will be able to walk into Hogwarts whenever he pleases, without anyone to stop him. I am truly jubilant._

_ Severus has informed me that the old Headmaster has a pensieve in his office, and he managed to sneak a look into it. Imagine my surprise to find out Dumbledore, paragon of virtue, defender of muggles and mudbloods, was plotting world domination with none other than Grindelwald! The hypocrisy of it simply reeks. At any rate, I am hopeful that Snape may yet be able to delve once more into the pensieve and retrieve something useful to my cause._

Severus returned from the diary's vision slowly, as if coming awake from a deep sleep. He blinked several times and shook his head, the present coming into sharp focus at last. He remembered that day well. He and Lucius had arrived at nearly the same time, both summoned by the dark lord for different purposes. Together they'd entered the large room to find Voldemort seated on a _throne_? Lucius had dropped to his knees, crawled over, and kissed his robe; Severus did the same, then they got up, neither one betraying by expression or word how aghast they felt at the sight before them. Lucius had confided to Severus later that if Voldemort had whipped out a crown for his head, he would certainly have lost his composure and burst out laughing, subsequently bringing about a severe episode of rolling on the floor screaming like a colicky newborn. As one might expect, he preferred to do without the pain and kept his mouth shut.

At the dark lord's last command, Severus had bowed low, then straightened to see Lucius peering intently at him, silently reminding him of his advice when he joined the Death Eaters—make himself useful. He vowed to himself that he _would_ do so in order to help bring about a quick end to this war. And he had, had he not? Made himself useful, that is. As for short wars, well that was another story, and not one under his control.

He looked up at the portrait of Dumbledore, who was sucking on a lemon drop—or perhaps a cherry drop. Who could keep track? Severus had done as the master ordered, he'd peered into the pensieve again, and had dutifully reported what he saw to Voldemort: Dumbledore had enlisted the Marauders into his Order of the Phoenix. At the time, Severus had been a tad hurt…why hadn't _he_ been asked to join? His skill with a wand was never in question. If Dumbledore had cared about him as he pretended to care time after time when he'd appeared in the Headmaster's office with the four bullies, why didn't he ask? Then again, he'd allowed Black to get away with attempted murder, so that should have been a tip-off.

Snape shook his head sadly. What difference did it make after all was said and done? Dumbledore was dead, and Severus had moved on to create a life worth living, something he'd have never had under either of his previous masters. That was all that mattered now. He glanced up at the clock. Time for Aline's class that he'd been enlisted to take while she was gone. He and their children were so blessed to have her in their lives. He missed her so much already.

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**March 12, 2001**

Bent over from the waist, her rump sticking in the air and her body resembling a pup tent, Khala studied the ladybug ambling across the floor. She reached out a stubby finger to poke at it, and squealed excitedly when the insect crawled up onto her hand. She stood up and whirled to her parents, who were talking by the fireplace at Auntie Auntie's house.

"Mama, Fa'er! Look!" She toddled over, extending her hand for them to see her prize.

"That's lovely, darling," said Narcissa distractedly.

Lucius patted her downy blond head. "A beautiful bug for a beautiful princess. Why don't you show your brother?"

Ladon had come over at that moment, interested to see what his sister was crowing about. Seeing the ladybug, he grinned and put out his hand. "Me, too."

Khala wrenched her hand behind her back. "Mine," she said, and toddle-ran across the room, laughing. She stopped, dropped to the floor on her bum, and watched the insect crawling round and round her hand, giggling at the tickling sensation. Ladon followed her over to implore her to allow him to play with the fun, new toy.

The fireplace blazed green and Draco walked out carrying two brooms. He handed one to Lucius. "Here you are, Father."

"Thank you, son." Lucius eyed the broom in his son's hand, knowing all too well what it meant. "I see you brought yours as well."

"I'm going with you."

"Draco—" Lucius began, only to be cut short by his son's rush of words.

"Greyback tried to kill me, Father! He tried to hurt my brother and sister. I have every right." He stood erect, unyielding, his chin thrust out in defiance.

Lucius took a slow, even breath, giving himself time to think. He'd told Narcissa and Draco about the meeting last night and the plans for today. It was only natural Draco would want to come, especially considering his last encounter with the werewolf. And when all was said and done, Draco was a grown man who had as much right as anyone to exact retribution when another wronged him. If he weren't worried for his son's safety, he'd have no problem inviting him along.

"And Uncle Severus won't be there since he's got to be at Hogwarts, so it wouldn't hurt to have another person watching your back," Draco added.

"I'll have four others for that," Lucius replied, poised to demand that Draco desist from this foolishness. He looked to his wife for her opinion, and to his surprise she gave the tiniest of nods. She didn't want her son risking his life, either, but if they forbid him he was likely to run off on his own and really get himself into a mess. Those other four ex-Death Eaters would serve well in protecting Draco as well as Lucius. "Alright, come on. But do as I tell you, and do not under any circumstances try to fight Greyback alone."

Draco smiled, more in astonishment than elation, though the latter was certainly evident. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Father. I'll be careful, Mother, I promise."

"You'd better be." Narcissa kissed his cheek just as Ladon shouted behind her.

"Mama! Khala eating bugs!"

Narcissa stormed over to the little girl and held out her hand. "Open your mouth." Khala gazed up at her, unmoving. "Khala, give me the ladybug."

The tiny girl shook her head and opened her mouth to protest. The ladybug flew out and onto the mantle, out of reach of either child. Khala shrieked and threw herself onto the floor to sulk. Narcissa picked her up, hugging her as she turned wearily to Lucius and said, "Kick Greyback's arse."

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Lucius and Draco floo'd into Dolph's house precisely on time, early in the morning as it was. Promptness was a virtue, after all. Everyone else was already present, except Severus, of course, who'd made it clear he couldn't go werewolf hunting on a school day. Every wizard had his broom with him and wore a heavy traveling cloak, for flying tended to be cold business. Tim, dressed in a black cloak similar to his father's, stood nervously next to Dolph, the man's hand on his shoulder. While everyone took note of Draco's presence, no one questioned it; if Lucius allowed his kid to come, who were they to contradict him?

"Looks like we're all here," said Dolph. He squeezed the boy's shoulder lightly. "It's time, Timothy. We're going to apparate to Stonehenge—"

"No," Lucius interrupted. "Stonehenge is hugely popular with the muggles, and lies on a plain where we'd be in full view. It's best to meet at Avebury and go from there. There are tree lines to hide behind."

"Once we get wherever we're going, we'll have to fly under disillusion charm," Rab joined in. "Fly low so Timothy can gauge the landscape the way he'd see it when walking." They couldn't afford to have muggles sighting a group of men flying on brooms, and while these charms wouldn't completely make them wholly invisible, it would create a distorted image that looked like ripples in the air rather than actual objects.

"Apparate back to back, everyone touching, to make sure we all end up at the same place," said Dolph, leading the way to the garden. "Lucius, you seem to know exactly where Avebury is, so you can lead the way."

They arrived in a thin copse of trees lining the outer circle of Avebury. The men peeked through, across the field separating them from the small village at the center of the attraction. Tim, who'd barely kept himself from vomiting and making a fool of himself in front of all these wizards, stuck his head through the tree line and looked around, getting his bearings. It had been a long time since he'd been here. He did a full revolution, his brow furrowing. At last he pointed south, and a bit to the east.

"There. We came from that direction."

Dolph straddled his broom, motioning for Tim to get on in front of him. "I won't let you fall." Tim gingerly swung his leg over, wiggling at the discomfort of a rigid rod under his bum. "You get used to it," Dolph said, grinning.

Tim slid as far back against his father as he dared, and he clasped the handle with both hands in a death grip. Dolph reached round him to hold on as well, smiling to himself; he vaguely recalled his first time on a broom, which had been anything but pleasant.

The other men mounted their brooms, and each took out his wand to cast a disillusion charm. When they were ready, Dolph rose in the air, leaving a wispy stream of smoke trailing behind him for the rest to follow. Skirting the village, he skimmed over the fields at two meters from the ground, making it easy for Tim to recognize landmarks, oblivious to the terror evident in the boy's rigid posture and halting breath; he'd been flying for so many years it hadn't occurred to him that Timothy might be frightened to be moving so fast.

They turned here and there as Tim remembered the path they'd taken, and within half an hour they'd covered at least twenty kilometers. As they neared the clearing where Tim had spent four years of his life, his body tensed so badly he felt cramps starting in his legs, and his jaw tightened to the point of barely being able to speak. Even the comforting presence of his father pressed to his back didn't alleviate the lurching of his stomach.

Afraid to remove even one hand from the broom handle, he twisted his head enough to say, "Dad, stop."

Dolph pulled to a halt, hovering in the air. He barked out a quick, "Stop!" He waited for his companions to crowd around him, and although he saw only flickering, distorted air, he knew they were there. "What is it, Timothy?"

"It's there, right ahead. If we get too close and he's there, he'll know." _He'll smell us_, he neglected to say, though he suspected they remembered what he'd told them the previous evening. What he also neglected to say was that he feared Greyback might smell _him_ and immediately identify him as one of the pack.

"Go up," Dolph ordered, and without another word he pulled on the broom handle to direct it upward. They ascended slowly, and from up high the clearing was readily visible, surrounded by thickets of trees in every direction, which served well to hide it. He circled it twice, searching for signs of life below, as Timothy whimpered softly and prayed they wouldn't fall.

Lucius took his wand, flew down as near as he dared, and cast a _homenum revelio_ on the entire area. There was no indication of human life below. Since Greyback was not at this point in the lunar cycle a werewolf, it ought to be effective even on him. He landed in the grass and took his broom in hand.

"Malfoy, don't!" Nott shouted. "Remember what the kid said about leaving a scent!"

Lucius removed the disillusion charm and aimed his comment at the faceless voice. "Let him know I'm here, that I know where he is and I'm after him."

"If he gets a whiff of you, he might not return here, Father," Draco remarked. He flew past Lucius' ear, ruffling his hair with the breeze.

Heaving a martyr-ish sigh, Lucius climbed aboard his broom once more and hovered with the rest. The things he put up with for revenge. Honestly, if he couldn't do things his own way—and the damned werewolf wasn't even here, anyway—wouldn't it be simpler to notify the aurors and let them deal with this, incompetent lot that they were?

Rab hurried to warn the rest, "Don't land or touch anything! We may look different from the way he knew us, but we smell the same. We don't want him betraying us to the Ministry when he's caught."

As the others removed the invisibility charms, they sailed their brooms round the clearing, inspecting, searching for anything of use. Dolph flew to the broken post that had recently held Shacklebolt captive, and hung in the air studying it, noting the rusty-red smears on it and in the vicinity.

He nudged Tim in the back. "What's this all about?"

"I don't know. It wasn't there when I lived here," answered the boy.

Dolph whistled for the others and waved them over. When they'd got near, he said, "Doesn't this look like blood to you?"

"Yeah, it does. And it's fresh," said Marshal, leaning in so close he could have kissed the post if he chose. The red fluid on the pole was dry, though he could tell it hadn't been there long. He'd been killing since he was a young man, he worked as a butcher now; he knew fresh blood when he saw it. "You think this is Shacklebolt's?"

"I wouldn't doubt it," Dolph answered, and Lucius nodded along with him. It offered positive proof that the werewolf had been up to something vile…did it also mean Shacklebolt was dead, and this whole enterprise a waste of time?

"So what do we do now?" asked Nott.

Pregnant pause. What to do now. If Greyback had brought Shacklebolt here and killed him, would he even come back? Was it wise to hang about in a place where, if aurors happened upon it, they could be linked to a possible murder? Everyone looked from Dolph to Lucius and back, not quite sure who was leading this mission.

"Father?" Draco interjected in the eerie silence. Even the birds had ceased singing. "Greyback came to our manor looking for Marcus; isn't it possible he'll show up at the homes of the other children as well?"

Pleased at his son's insight, Lucius nodded. "Perhaps we should retreat for now. Shacklebolt saw to it that the aurors moved Brooke and Roger and their families to a secure location, so it's unlikely Greyback will find them. Marcus is safe." _Albeit not with me, where he belongs_. "That leaves Timothy, Charlotte, and Henry."

"We can take Timothy home and guard him," Rab offered.

"You take him, Rabby," Dolph said. "Somebody's got to keep an eye out for Greyback."

"We can do that," said Marshal, gesturing at himself and Nott. "Although I highly suspect Greyback doesn't have a clue where Tim is, so he'll safe be either way."

"We probably should construct a web ward," said Nott. "That way we'll be notified if anything comes into the area, while we can stay out of sight."

Dolph nodded in agreement. "Good idea—but it's got to be about chest high so it doesn't alert us for animals passing through. You blokes want to help?"

Each wizard retreated to a separate edge of the clearing; all at once they began to fly toward one another, their wands sending out spaghetti-thin coloured trails that glimmered in the sunlight. They zoomed past to the far end of the arena, and turned around for another pass. In and out they slipped between each other, rounding the clearing, slicing the air with their spells, creating an almost perfect spider-work pattern that glowed tones of red and orange. When they'd finished, the area was completely covered, and they all flew outside the ring of trees.

Nott turned back and uttered the final command to set the ward. "_On lif!_" Immediately the grid seemed to disappear.

"What happened to it?" asked Tim, looking concerned.

"Nothing, kid," said Marshal, grinning. "It's just invisible now. If anyone walks into it, we'll be alerted by this." He held up his empty wand hand and pointed to the center of his palm. "If the ward is breached, an orange circle will pulse on the palm of anyone involved in spinning the web."

"That's wicked cool!" exclaimed Timothy.

The group of wizards chuckled as one. It certainly was, wasn't it?

"Dolph, we should get Timothy home. You'll know if Greyback shows up, and you can apparate back here if he does," Rabby said.

"Alright." Dolph waved a hand in farewell to his companions and sailed out of the clearing. Without bothering to touch ground, he disapparated together with Tim. A moment later Rab followed suit.

Marshal glanced at Malfoy, who seemed to be arguing quietly with his son. "What about you?" he inquired in a loud voice.

"I'm going to visit my beloved cousin-in-law, Sirius Black," Lucius answered, his features set in a severe, aggravated expression. "And apparently Draco is coming with me."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Fenrir had debated within himself how to do this right. Knocking on the door, letting the elf open it, stunning him and storming inside seemed the best course of action. He couldn't afford to let a house elf trip him up before he'd even got to confront Potter or Black. His heart beat rapidly in anticipation.

He rapped on the door, standing off to the side and aiming low so as to get a shot off as the door opened. Only it didn't open. A voice from the other side shouted through, "Who's there?" And it wasn't the squeak of an elf.

As it was unlikely anyone was going to open up for a rampaging werewolf willingly, he took the next best course of action: he blew the door down with a _expulso_. It exploded inward and landed a meter or so inside the foyer, on top of whoever had asked the question. Bits of wood and plaster from the doorframe drifted through the air. Greyback stomped over top, crushing the door onto the person lying beneath. He glanced down to see Sirius Black, his head bleeding, his eyes closed, unconscious. Good, that made things very easy, if a little disappointing.

He stood there for a moment in the hallway, getting his bearings. Why hadn't the elf answered the door? The only reason he could figure was that it happened to be out at the moment…how lucky for Greyback! Question two: where was Harry Potter? Question three: where were his pack members?

He stole through the place quiet as a cat, though the comparison would have rankled…and it seemed blatantly pointless, since he'd just made a racket. Peeking into rooms as he went, he determined that the downstairs was empty. He glided up the stairs, wincing with each squeak of the steps, his wand gripped in sweating fingers. When he reached the landing, he heard a voice he recognized. Henry! In three strides he was down the hall to the further room, and he paused in the doorway. There was Henry on the bed, looking at a picture book while his sister read to him. Had they not heard the noise below? Or were such noises so common in this place as to not warrant their attention?

"There you are," he said in his deep rasp. "Did you miss me?"

The children's heads whipped up and they stared in uncomprehending horror at the werewolf before Henry cried out in a panic and Charlotte jumped off the bed, positioning herself between her brother and their old leader.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, unafraid.

"I came to get you. Both of you."

"Where's Sirius?"

"The idiot is currently lying under the front door. Served him right," replied Greyback nonchalantly.

"You killed him?" wailed Henry, backing up to the headboard.

"No. I don't think he's dead. By the way, where are Potter and the elf?"

"Kreacher probably went shopping or to Regulus' house. Harry is with Ginny," Henry said in a small voice. "You're not gonna hurt him, too, are you?"

"Well, he ain't here, so I guess not," retorted the older werewolf. "Let's go." Greyback held out his gnarled, dirty hand to the children.

Charlotte planted her feet, glaring at him. "Why should we? You left us! You left us alone to fend for ourselves, and now most of our pack is dead!"

Greyback snarled at her. "It's not like I volunteered for Azkaban, Charlotte. When I was able, I escaped. It's not my fault you dumbarse kids went looking for vampire trouble."

"Don't you blame us! You made us what we are!" She flung the book at him, and it struck him in the chest and landed on the floor. "Leave us alone."

Surprisingly calm in the face of this assault, Greyback picked it up and strode forward. Charlotte blocked his way and he pushed her aside, not roughly, to hand the book to Henry. "You are coming with me, so get over your tantrum and then we'll leave."

"Or not." A disheveled, bloodied Sirius entered the room, his wand pointed in Greyback's direction, though he dared not shoot, since the werewolf was mostly behind Charlotte. "Charlotte, move!"

The girl dropped to the ground instantly, and Sirius cast a spell with such force it broke a large chunk of the ceiling moulding when Greyback deflected it. Henry leapt off the other side of the bed onto the floor, leaving the path clear to the pack leader. Greyback shot a blue curse at Sirius, who turned it aside and flung back two more. Greyback managed to avoid one by twisting to the side, as he ricocheted another off the ceiling. It bounced back and almost hit Henry. They parried for a minute or so, until Greyback acknowledged that his opponent was quicker and obviously more skilled in dueling than himself. If he hoped to win, he had better think up a new plan, and fast.

Throwing curses as fast as he could, he suddenly charged forward, transforming himself into werewolf form, knowing that most spells would have little effect on him this way. He landed on Sirius with a ferocious bellow, knocking him off his feet and sending his wand skittering across the room. In barely more than a heartbeat, Sirius had changed into his animagus form, and the two began rolling on the floor, growling, clawing, and tearing at one another.

Suddenly spells were flying again, only this time they hadn't come from the two animals battling to the death. One struck Greyback on the rump, seemingly with no effect. Another sent invisible ropes to bind his paws; it hindered him for mere moments, then he was free once more. He got up and slashed at Sirius, backing up rapidly. He bent down, grabbed hold of Charlotte by the hair, and pulled her to her feet. With her in front of him, his arm round her neck, he _accio_'d his wand, lurched to the window, and jumped with his back aimed at the glass, breaking through and dragging the girl with him.

Henry screamed, along with Charlotte, and Sirius and Lucius and Draco ran to the window to see what had befallen the two. There was no one below. He'd apparently disapparated with the girl the moment he'd cleared the house.

Lucius looked at Henry, who was wailing uncontrollably. Sirius returned to his true form and brought the boy into a hug, even as Lucius asked, "How the bloody hell did Greyback get the drop on you?"

"Not now, Malfoy," Sirius responded lifelessly. He'd screwed up in the biggest way possible. He'd failed to keep Greyback out, and the beast had taken Charlotte. He didn't need to be castigated by others, he'd be doing enough of his own for years to come.

"Not to change the subject, but how did Greyback turn into a wolf? It's not the full moon," observed Draco.

"He can do that," said Henry, sniffling. "He's the only one I know who can."

Lucius was scarcely listening. He'd felt a tingling on his palm, and glanced down to see an orange circle pulsing. Son of a bitch! The werewolf had gone right to the clearing! He noted that Draco was suddenly looking at his own palm. He cast Draco a warning frown; they didn't need Black hearing about their present operation involving presumed-dead ex-Death Eaters.

"We've got to leave, Sirius. Take Henry to Black Manor; Greyback can't get in there."

For once Sirius had nothing snide to say. He got up, picked up his wand, and led Henry downstairs to disapparate from the garden.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

With Neville out around the side of the castle browsing through Tanassov's garden, Aline and Tanassov pored together over the long list of potion ingredients given them by the veelas, the only creatures with the knowledge to create the Oblivion Wine. As Tanassov read aloud each component—being written in Bulgarian, Aline hadn't a prayer of doing it alone—occasionally they stopped to point out a special herb here or one of noteworthy interest there. Thus far they agreed that nothing was lethal or seemed likely to cause injury to the Longbottoms. However, because some elements were listed by common name and others by mere genus, it would be virtually impossible to reproduce the formula on their own.

"There are several species of ginseng. Of course, with any type the dilation of blood vessels would increase blood flow, and thereby a higher intake of nutrients and oxygen, but why doesn't it specify?" asked Aline.

"I assume it refers to the Siberian variety; it is known for its memory building properties," said Tanassov, shrugging lightly. It wasn't as if they had a true formula in front of them, it was merely a list of herbs in use. Their quantities remained unspecified, even what part of the plant was not given, nor the method of preparation for each component.

Aline nodded and they moved further down the inventory. Siberian ginseng wasn't truly ginseng, as it belonged to another genus, but it was commonly lumped in with the others and there was no point in arguing about it. "_Artemisia_. Wormwood. Interesting."

"_Artemisia absinthium_ has been used for centuries in popular drink for its bitter flavour," Tanassov replied.

"That's why I thought it out of place," Aline rejoined. "With all these herbs, the potion is bound to taste awful—why add another flavour? I'm thinking it means _Artemisia vulgaris,_ for its tonic effect on the brain. Or perhaps both?"

Again Tanassov shrugged. "I wish they had been more specific. This is practically useless." He browsed further on, keeping his comments to himself. _Sage…calming, stress reducer. Vanilla…stimulates cortex functions_.

On the list went: ashwagandha, holy basil, brahmi, rosemary, gotu kola.

"Ah, gingko biloba. German wizards have used that one for ages in cases of dementia," Aline noted.

"And mint," Dimitar responded, pointing to it among the rest of the ingredients. "The Italians use it to inhibit aggression as well as to treat stress. I don't think Neville's parents tend to aggression, but it can be calming nevertheless."

When they'd reached the end of the parchment, both of them exclaimed at once, "Melissa!" They looked at one another and broke into laughter.

"We call it lemon balm," Aline said, still grinning. "I used it for the potion I made for my mother when she had that tumor in her brain."

"It is indeed a potent weapon in cases of damage to the brain, as well as a powerful memory booster," Tanassov concurred, eyeing the woman with respect. He'd learned Melissa had the power to regenerate brain cell receptors, and that Melissa was superior to most plant remedies involving memory loss. He'd also had the opportunity to study the formula Aline had created for her mother, and he'd been duly impressed. "If I may speak freely, Aline, I had never known Severus to be attracted to a woman before you. I see now it was because his standards are very high."

Aline ducked her head, smiling and blushing a little. "I take that as a compliment."

"It is intended as such."

When he smiled through his clipped black beard, Aline thought how handsome he looked. Maybe Severus ought to grow a beard to see how it looked on him. She dismissed the idea instantly. If she suggested he grow a beard, he'd want to know why, and if she told him, he'd get into a snit over nothing. Just _thinking_ Tanassov was cute didn't mean she was attracted to him! Heck, Lucius was a striking individual, but she wasn't panting after him, either. She simply wanted to know what her husband would look like with a beard, was that a crime? Severus might think so, and she didn't like to fight over something so petty.

Oblivious to the witch's ruminations, Tanassov reread the list, counting quickly in his head. It wasn't right, something was missing. Up to this point, he and Aline had agreed that there was nothing in this potion detrimental to humans, and giving it to the Longbottoms could do no harm, even if it proved unsuccessful in healing their infirmity. Why had the final component not been included? Stana had given some vague, unspecific warning when she handed him the list of ingredients; he'd better discover what this was all about.

"Would you excuse me, Aline? I need to go ask a question of one of the veelas."

"Is there something wrong?" she asked.

"I do not know." He gave her a nod and swept out of the room, down the corridor, and to the Potions lab where he'd left the veelas. When he entered they looked up from one of the tables, where they'd been examining the students' vials left behind.

"Dimitre, izglezhdash mi iznerven. Da nyama neshto?" (_Dimitar, you look distressed. Is there a problem?_) asked Dimna.

"Ima. Prebroih sastavkite po tozi spisak i te sa samo trideset i devet. Kogato ne mi pozvolihte as da napravya tazi retsepta sam, vie mi obeshtahte da mi otkirete vsichki sastavki."(_Yes. I've counted the ingredients on this list, and there are only thirty-nine. When you refused to allow me to brew the potion myself, you promised to give me full disclosure of the ingredients._) Although he felt a twinge of annoyance, the expression he wore was more hurt than angry. He'd trusted them and they'd deceived him—and in front of a guest, making him look like a fool!

Stana dug into the leather pouch she kept strapped to her waist in her wide sash. "Dadoh ti vsichko koeto mozhehme da namerim. Eto ti i poslednata sastavka." (_I gave you everything that is in our power to acquire. Here is the final element._) She handed him a slip of parchment with a single sentence written on it.

Tanassov took it and read the paper, then his brow furrowed and he lifted his eyes to them in disbelief. Stana flushed, which Tanassov thought curious. He'd never seen a veela blush, hadn't even known they were capable of it. Was she embarrassed that she had not told him of this before?

Dimna glided forward to rest a hand lightly on his arm. "Ti si ni skap, bihme ti pomognali ako mozhehme. Ne se razstroivai." (_You are dear to us; we would help you if we could. Don't be upset._)

"Ne se razstroivam. Ne e zaradi men," (_I'm not—not for myself_)he said quietly. It was the Longbottoms he felt bad for, Neville in particular, who'd come here with such hope. "Shte otida da kazha na Aline i Neville. Blagodarya vi i na dvete." (_I should go tell Aline and Neville. Thank you both._)

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I don't care! This is the third time I've landed on your stupid property, and every time I have to pay ridiculous amounts of extortion money," Jacinta fumed at the young man extending his hand in her direction. She threw a wad of play bills at Theo.

"It's just a game," Theo answered calmly, picking up the money and counting it. "You're twenty pounds short."

In response, Jacinta deliberately slipped two fingers under the edge of the game board, scowled at him, and suddenly wrenched it upward. Game pieces, little plastic houses and hotels, decks of cards, and money flew through the air and all over her fiancé. She stomped across the living room, where she flung herself on the sofa and turned on the telly.

"Real mature, Cinta!" Theo called after her. He took out his wand to gather the game pieces together.

"Mister Theo not expecting Kreacher to help," said Kreacher from the stove, where he was stirring a pot of soup. "Kreacher has two good masters already, not about to volunteer for extra work."

"Who asked you to?" retorted Theo, not in a particularly charming mood.

From the living room came Jacinta's shouted response. "It's your fault! You know I don't like to play with hotels because it makes the fees too outrageous, but you insisted!"

Regulus eased away from the kitchen table where they'd been playing; he hated it when they got into arguments with him in the room. It wasn't like he could take sides, although he could see both points. He ambled into the living room and took a seat beside his friend. He picked up the control and switched the station.

Hmm, a western. Maybe he'd come back to that. Ooooh, a commercial—those could be fun. Jacinta snatched the control from his hand and flipped the channel again. It was a news program. Reg wasn't big on watching those, they tended to be very depressing and often disturbing. Death Eaters had nothing on some things muggles got up to.

A dark haired woman with too much rouge and deep red lipstick that made one's eyes focus solely on the mouth was saying, "… and this particular Joe Bloggs appears to have been held captive in shackles. According to the doctors at Bedford Hospital, he was severely tortured, including numerous lacerations on his face and body caused by an unknown implement, and he remains in a coma. Authorities are asking anyone with knowledge of the perpetrator or victim to please come forth and to call the number below…" Then she was off on another story, smiling blithely as though she had not just reported on a man's torture and near death.

Jacinta switched the channel once more, but Reg wasn't paying attention. He gazed into space, contemplating silently as he chewed on his lip. An unknown man in Bedford, mutilated, tortured. Shacklebolt was missing, abducted, and hadn't Lucius said he suspected Greyback had impersonated him and stolen the Minister? Wouldn't werewolf claws do a wonderful job of slashing? But Joe Bloggs people showed up all the time at hospitals…didn't they? Still, when the news anchor said 'shackles', the name Shacklebolt had popped into his head, and naturally made him think. Had the Minister's kidnapper—whoever it might be—abused him and left him to die? Could this be him?

Reg looked at Jacinta, who was staring stubbornly at the telly, ignoring Theo, who was trying to make up to her. He elbowed her in the side. "Maybe we ought to check out this bloke in Bedford."

"Check out who? What are you talking about?" asked Theo.

"That man in the hospital…I think it might be Minister Shacklebolt."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Acting as nonchalant as magical youths not wholly familiar with muggle society could act, Regulus, Theodore, and Jacinta strolled down a corridor of the Bedford Hospital. They'd charmed their clothing to match that of the people in the area, and tried to avoid speaking to anyone, but the wand balanced on the girl's palm might seem strange to muggle-folk.

Every so often Jacinta, with the men bordering her on either side, whispered to the wand, "Point me to Kingsley Shacklebolt." The spell hadn't worked from Spinner's End, hadn't worked till they'd apparated to the small town of Bedford, probably because they'd been too far removed from the man; she assumed the spell likely wouldn't work for aurors in London, either. Now, however, it had led them to the hospital and into this corner of it; the wand slid to the left, aiming down a short hallway.

The group marched down to the end of the hall, only to discover there were no patient rooms here. Reg stuck his head into the nearest room, a broom closet. "He's not in there."

"Really?" asked Jacinta dryly. She repeated the request to the wand, which danced and lurched in her palm. Her eyes drifted upward. "He's upstairs somewhere, right above us."

That made things considerably easier. They hoofed it to the nearest stairwell and ran up to the second level; he was not there, nor on the third level. On the fourth level, they sneaked into the room at the end of the hall, where Jacinta's wand indicated. A large bloke swathed in bandages lay in a bed, unmoving, his dark arm poking out from under the blanket, hooked to an IV. Ever so slowly they crept forward to gaze upon the face of the man.

"Shit," Theo breathed, shaking his head. If he didn't know who this was, he'd have been hard pressed to believe it. The man's face was so swollen and sliced, sewn up with black thread, that it was hard to distinguish who it might be.

"It's him," Jacinta said, shoving down the bile in her throat. She put her wand back in her pocket and started to edge backward; she grasped onto Theo's hand and held tight.

Reg touched Shacklebolt's arm. "You have to wake up, sir," he said gently. "There's a lot going on out there. Greyback's still on the loose."

"He's not going to wake up just because we want him to," Jacinta said. She motioned for Reg to come along. "We can't tarry here. We don't want to be caught."

"We haven't done anything wrong," said Reg, refusing to leave. "What can it hurt to talk to him for a minute?"

"Nothing, Reg, but I agree with Cinta," said Theo solemnly. "We have to go get someone who can help him. We need to get to the Ministry right now."


	82. Birds of a Feather

14

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 82 (Birds of a Feather)

(**A/N: This is getting tedious. Again fanfic was having trouble last week right after I posted, and reviews have been way down (esp. chap 80 week), so I am wondering how many ppl are even able to read the story. Please make sure you've read chapters 80 and 81 before going on. Thanks!**)

**February 23, 1946**

"Thank you for your business," the proprietor of the shop said, handing the young man a ruby-encrusted, heavy gold band. Notably he wore a thick black glove when handling the object.

"My pleasure," answered the other, smiling genially. He accepted it into his own gloved hand. Mr. Borgin had looked for this ring for a long time, and would be very pleased to see that Tom had acquired it for a most agreeable price. "Good day, sir."

Tom delicately wrapped the ring in two layers of cloth and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. The weak magic associated with it couldn't penetrate even one layer, and he wasn't worried anyway. Whatever pitiful spell had been placed on it would be summarily reversed when he got it back to Borgin and Burkes and had time to study it. He stepped out of the shop into the cold, snowy street of Hogsmeade.

He took a deep breath of the frigid air. It smelled sweet and crisp. In fact, he was feeling so satisfied with himself he decided he ought to celebrate with some candy from Honeydukes. Ordinarily he avoided candy, but it was a special occasion.

He rounded the corner on the way to Honeydukes, and stopped in his tracks. Not ten meters away he saw her; he hadn't seen her since that day she'd come to Borgin and Burkes, pleading with him to allow her to be part of his life. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest, and it angered him. What angered him even more was the boy beside Minerva, flinging his arm round her shoulders and laughing. Tom felt an overpowering urge to kill.

No longer in the mood to eat, he slipped up alongside a building, his eyes trained on the couple. Minerva wasn't pushing the Gryffindor away; in fact, she seemed to enjoy his company. Tom's wand was in his hand, yet he didn't remember taking it out. A simple spell would do the trick, it would be so easy…

Tom forced himself to stop. There were so many people around, tons of students from Hogwarts. He couldn't afford to let anyone see, and what would be the point anyway? He didn't care about her, why should this bother him? He didn't need her, he didn't need anyone! What he needed was a change of scenery. Gritting his teeth, he put away his wand and disapparated.

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**March 12, 2001**

_Feb. 23, 1946_

_ It's time to move on. I've learned about all I can from Borgin and Burke, and there is so much more that awaits me. In my year and a half here, I've gained loads of valuable experience in my dealings with clients, not to mention the valuables I've acquired for myself, like Helga Hufflepuff's cup. Despite what my old teachers from Hogwarts may think, my time here has not been wasted._

_ I've heard certain Dark Magic can be obtained from individuals in Albania, and I shall make travel plans accordingly. The weather being what it is, I'll be forced to wait till spring or summer, though I feel a distinct desire to be gone now._

_ It's been over a year since I saw Minerva. She was in Hogsmeade today; she didn't see me._

Here the entry ended abruptly, and Severus had no doubt why. Tom had decided long ago that love was silly and made him weak; hence, he'd never admit—even to himself—that seeing her, the one woman who'd ever got past his defenses, ate at him. Seeing her with another man had to be hard for one with such control issues, particularly when that individual offered something beyond his scope of understanding, beyond his reach…beyond his control.

Severus closed the diary and slid it into the drawer just as Minerva entered. He saw no reason to hide it now, as she was aware of what had befallen him and the reason for his deep seated interest in these books, but his hands moved of their own volition. He waved his wand to secure the spot, and turned to the woman.

"Hello, Minerva. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing," she said, brushing absently at wisps of hair falling down from her bun. She adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. "I mean, I wanted to ask you something."

She cleared her throat. Why was this so hard? She'd known Severus most of his life—ah, there was the rub: she'd known him most of his life, when he'd been a secretive child, a cynical teenager, and a bitter young man. He'd been highly unapproachable for almost the entire tenure of their relationship. While his attitude had changed markedly in many ways since his near-death…no, since falling in love with Aline…he could still make a person feel a centimeter high with that acerbic tongue of his.

"Shall I go teach class and come back later?" he prompted, his tone offset by the hint of a smile tipping at his lips. He found it amusing that one of the oldest, most respected, and established professors became tongue-tied in the presence of one of her previous pupils.

Minerva moved in close, debating whether to take a seat or ask her question and run for the hills. She opted to sit. It was more dignified, and frankly she wasn't sure she'd be able to stand if she heard what she feared she might. "Severus, you've told me Therese is doing well, and I'm happy to hear it. Madam Pomfrey corroborates your assessment."

"That's not technically a question." Should he be enjoying this as much as he was?

Minerva wrung her hands in her lap. Hesitantly, haltingly, she croaked out, "Given the presence of those diaries, and your—the way you've been reading them…surely you're aware that I attended school at the same time as Vol—Tom. In those diaries…did—did Tom ever…mention me?" Her voice fell to a whisper at the end.

There it was. He'd sort of been wondering for months if the old witch would ever gather the gumption to broach this. "Yes, Minerva, quite a lot actually, especially when he was still in school." She cringed, which made him feel somehow guilty for telling the truth.

She paused, not sure how to feel about the response. She'd hoped against hope that it would be negative. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. "What did he say?"

Severus couldn't mask the tiny smirk-masquerading-as-a-smile. "Let it suffice to say that, as much as Tom Riddle was capable of it, he loved you."

The witch pursed her lips together and turned away, but not before he saw the expression on her face that told him everything he'd wondered about and all he needed to know.

"It must have been difficult all these years, realizing what he'd become, hearing terrible things about the man you once loved," he said softly, no longer taking pleasure in making her squirm.

"I never said such a thing!" she shot back, turning long enough to give him a wicked scowl, then whirling back away.

"You didn't have to," he explained, laying his hands on the desk in a friendly entreaty that she didn't see. "The visions accompanying the diary entries tell a compelling story of young Tom and Minerva."

This time when she rounded on him, her eyes were tormented, her tone pleading. "Please, Severus, you can't tell anyone! I—it would—what would they think?"

"I shan't say a word," he promised in the suddenly eerie quiet of the office. Were those damned portraits listening in again? He'd have to warn them to keep their traps shut as well.

"What about Therese?" she asked anxiously.

He smiled, and this time it was genuine. "She only read the diary recording Tom's first and second years. He hadn't even met you yet. She will remain perfectly clueless."

The Deputy Headmistress slumped in the chair like the bones had fallen out of her body. "Thank you." After a few moments rest, she got up to go, but halted halfway to the door. With her back to him, she mused aloud, "All my life I've been beleaguered by the thought, wondering if Tom might have been different if I'd…if I hadn't pushed him away."

"I doubt it," Snape answered bluntly. "He pushed _you_ away when he was old enough to make that choice. He never _wanted_ to love you, he just did."

He watched her leave, watched her stepping down the spiral staircase till her bunned head had dropped below his line of vision. He couldn't help but wonder himself what the world would have been like had Tom given in to his emotions and allowed himself to be loved and to love, rather than to hate. The awesome power of the dark lord turned to noble pursuits…a fascinating concept.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Only veelas could make Oblivion Wine; that fact had been established right from the start. At first Aline held out hope that she and Severus, and possibly Tanassov, might be allowed to brew it themselves, but the veelas had nipped that notion in the bud. They held the only known recipe, and their methods of preparation for each ingredient was a deeply held secret. Even which part of the plants used—seeds, buds, flowers, stems, roots, leaves, pollen, stamens—had never been revealed outside of their own kind. In addition, Tanassov had informed Aline that veela magic, secretive and strange as it seemed, was the only kind able to speak to the plants, to bid them formulate the desired potion. For all intents and purposes, if they wanted this potion, they were at the mercy of Stana and Dimna.

Tanassov entered the room with the aforementioned veelas, his brow still registering a degree of concern that worried Aline. If only she could touch him, she might be able to discern what was wrong. She laughed inside at her silliness; since when did her clairvoyance obey her commands? And if she did get a look, it would surely be in Bulgarian. The emotions of their conversation she'd easily perceive, but she already sensed those. She did note, however, that since coming back and summoning Neville, Tanassov repeatedly touched or stroked the breast pocket of his robes, as if he'd stored something there of great importance.

Stana swirled her long white robe about her ankles, giving Aline a curious sense of déjà vu…in that it elicited an image of her husband doing the same with his black robes. She dipped her head and smiled, trying not to let the rest see her amusement at a time when amusement was not called for. She missed Severus and wished he were here.

Stana was speaking about the ultimate element of the Oblivion Wine, and Tanassov was translating rapidly back and forth for them. "Our unbreakable tenet is that the one who most wants the potion must select the final ingredient personally from our private garden."

Aline lifted her head and piped up immediately with, "Okay. Show me where it is."

The veela smiled coyly, shaking her head. "Not you, Potions mistress. The one who wishes it the most." Her body angled slightly and she pointed a long, slim finger at Neville.

"M-Me?" Neville stammered, taken aback. "I—I'm terrible at potions. Professor Snape said I was hopeless."

Dimna, who'd sat quietly throughout the rest of the conversation, sighed audibly. Despite its softness, it made everyone turn to her. "If you will not comply, your quest has ended."

"No, please!" he pleaded. Looking confused and anxious, he said to Aline, "You come with me, then."

"No." Stana stamped her foot on the floor; being a bare foot on a stone floor, it made scarcely any noise whatsoever. "No one may help you choose."

"What if I get it wrong?" exclaimed Neville.

"The potion will fail," explained Dimna simply.

"It won't hurt my parents, will it?" asked Neville.

"That remains to be seen," answered Stana stoically. "There are many varieties of plants from which to choose; if you select a toxic one, things could become unpleasant."

"Unpleasant?" Aline repeated, rising from her chair. Enough was enough. Either they'd help Neville or not, but what right did they have to torture the poor boy?

"I'm not going to risk poisoning my parents! I can't do it," Neville insisted. He started for the door, but Tanassov stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Will you not at least look at your options before making your decision?" he implored. "Aline tells me you are very knowledgeable about herbs and plants. You stand a good chance of choosing the proper one—or at least of not choosing a dangerous one."

"Even if it isn't dangerous, if it's not the right one, it's all for nothing," Neville said glumly. He paused before adding, "But I don't see any alternative. This is the last hope for Mum and Dad. I have to do it."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Nott and Marshal had taken cover in clusters of trees on opposite sides of the clearing, far enough away to preclude visible discovery or to prevent their scent from drifting in and alerting the werewolf. Marshal was sitting in a tree gazing off into the swirling clouds, grinning to himself at the scene being played out for him in the heavens. Nott had settled in for the long haul, morosely thinking to himself how Fidelia was going to have a massive fit for going behind her back this way. They both noticed the pulsing orange circles on their palms at the same instant, and immediately zoomed out from under cover some distance away on their brooms. They arrived at the clearing just as Lucius, Draco, and Dolph apparated in, wands drawn, bodies tense with expectation.

Everyone halted in place, then did quick spins, glancing frantically around. Where was Greyback? In the case of the Malfoys, where were the werewolf and Charlotte? Spells cast to detect humans in the vicinity revealed nothing. In the clearing, three lapwings meandered about, pecking in the grass, their black and white markings and iridescent green back making a striking appearance. Tiny plumes of black feathers stuck up on the posterior of their heads.

"Peewits?" Dolph barked angrily, shaking his wand in the direction of the birds. Startled by the intruders' commotion, the birds gave a shrill cry and took to flight, the tips of their wings giving a flickering appearance from the black on the wing tips. The orange pulsing in the men's hands grew stronger as the creatures hit the alarm ward again. "We came back here for this?"

Lucius brushed his friend's arm down and addressed Marshal and Nott. "Was he here? Is it possible he came and left?"

"No!" Marshal huffed at the insinuation that he'd fallen down on the job. "The idiot birds wouldn't be there if he'd showed up, now would they?"

"I suppose not," Lucius admitted glumly. "So where did they go?"

"They?" asked Dolph, Nott, and Marshal in unison.

"He's got Charlotte," Draco said, pressing in closer to the ring of men so as not to feel excluded. "He broke into Grimmauld Place right before we got there."

"Isn't that peachy," Marshal grumbled. "He's got one of the kids, and he's on the loose."

"I am not going to come running every time some f—king flock of birds decides to land," Dolph seethed. "Next it will be a deer, then a farmer wandering through—I'm just not!"

"Dolph, relax," Lucius said calmly under his breath. "I know you're worried about Timothy, but becoming enraged isn't going to solve anything."

"You're a fine one to talk, Malfoy," drawled Dolph sarcastically. "If the beast hadn't attacked your kids, would you be here?"

"I hate to say this," Nott broke in. He honestly did hate to say it, since so often his companions treated him like a moron; sure, he wasn't so good at book learning, but when it came to life he made out pretty well. "Perhaps we should dismantle the ward. If Greyback didn't come here with the girl, and obviously he didn't, he must have another hideout."

"I agree with Goodman," said Marshal, putting his wand back into his pocket. "I don't wanna hang out here indefinitely, jumping every time some animal walks across the field. Nott's right, we should take it down. We're just gonna keep being alerted for nothing while Greyback is nowhere around." He lifted his hand, palm out. "I could also do without this thing shining for everyone to ask about; I'll wager the rest of you feel the same."

As one they all looked down at their hands. It was true, the warning glow was convenient in one sense—and horridly inconvenient in every other. Unless they wore gloves at all times, they'd be forced to explain or lie every time the ward went off, and if the wrong people saw it, it could cause major headaches. Not to mention the web wasn't working as anticipated.

Lucius gave a martyr-ish sigh. "Alright, take it down. We'll come up with another way to find the bastard." It wasn't as if they had a choice, after all; Greyback hadn't come here, which meant he had to be holed up elsewhere.

Nott smiled to himself; no one had thought his suggestion stupid this time. The web had been a good idea, it simply hadn't worked as planned. That kind of thing had happened all the time when they'd worked for Lord Voldemort. Aiming his wand at the field, he intoned, "_Tacan of_." The web shimmered briefly, then fell to the ground and was gone.

Awkward pause. "Now what?" asked Marshal.

"We go home," said Dolph. What more was there to say? Until they knew where to look, chasing Greyback was much like chasing a ghost, with roughly the same chance of catching him.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Neville entered the veelas' garden and stood there, awestruck. He'd expected a small plot with perhaps a dozen or so herbs, not an expansive field with scores, perhaps hundreds of plants. He turned back to Stana to ask a question, but she'd gone. Great. He was alone to choose the most important ingredient of his life.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had no choice, not if he wanted at least a chance at curing Mum and Dad. May as well get moving. He shuffled up to the first row and knelt down to examine the bushes with enormous, funnel-shaped red flowers. The first two looked very alike, they must be the same thing; wait, no—this one had a tiny incised indentation at the tip of each leaf. He couldn't recall ever having seen either plant, not even in all his reading. He had no idea what it was.

Taking out of his pocket the parchment Aline had slipped to him, he twisted round to make sure he wasn't being observed, then ran down the list of ingredients. He knew them all, and had to be sure not to select a repeat component. That would rule out thirty-nine of the plants here. He folded it and returned it to his pocket.

The next two herbs were on the list, or some form of them was—he passed them by. Maybe he ought to canvass the whole garden, see what was available, then do a second trip to determine which plants might be chosen and which eliminated. He set off, giving a cursory inspection of each piece of foliage, taking mental notes. By the time he'd finished his first pass, more than an hour had elapsed and sweat covered his brow from nerves as well as the humidity in there.

He'd been in the garden for well over three hours, and Aline and Tanassov were growing concerned. Tanassov in particular understood how difficult this task would be, for he'd been in the veela garden, he'd been privy to varieties of plants most mortals had never seen. He'd also come in contact with unfamiliar plants he'd learned were toxic even in minute amounts.

Neville trudged into the room looking exhausted and flustered. He collapsed on a stool in the lab. "I've made a decision."

Stana moved smoothly across the room to him. "Let me see." She held out her hand as Tanassov translated for them.

Neville opened his fist; he had to shake it to make the object let go of his sticky hand. Into her palm fell a tiny blue feather with speckles along the ridge. It drifted down and settled there, as everyone stared.

In his own defense he said, "It was in the garden, between the anise and some plant I can't identify. Jobberknoll feathers are used in memory potions, and you never specifically said it had to be a _plant_."

Stana listened to Tanassov's translation, then nodded sagely. "It is true, I did not. I will take this and prepare the potion. Have your parents here tomorrow."

"Did I make the right choice?" Neville asked, growing excited.

"That remains to be seen," she answered. She spun and glided out.

Tanassov, his brow creased, asked Neville, "Why did you choose the feather?"

Neville shrugged lifelessly, shaking his head. "There were so many plants, many I wouldn't dare select because I don't know what they do. I saw the feather on the ground, and I remembered that the jobberknoll never makes a sound till the moment of its death, when it lets loose a long, terrible scream. Sometimes I feel like that, like letting loose a scream." He laughed nervously. "At least I know it isn't poison. Right?"

He had expected the others to concur, and when they didn't he lifted his head to them. Aline laid a hand on his shoulder. "By itself, no. Or even in combination with standard ingredients…" She drifted off, letting Neville draw his own conclusions. To be honest, this potion was nothing she'd ever seen, and she couldn't say for sure what might happen.

Neville glanced at Tanassov, who looked pityingly at him, evidently agreeing with Aline's ambiguous assessment. He dropped his head onto his folded arms and mumbled, "I wish I'd never come here. This is a big waste of time."

"You don't know that," Aline replied. "If it makes you feel any better, I know of no portion of the feather that has ever exhibited toxic properties. Even if it proves useless, I tend to think it won't cause any harm. Come on, we should go home. Tomorrow we need to bring your parents."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 13, 2001**

"Wow!" Regulus exclaimed as he walked past the two armed guards into Minister Shacklebolt's room at St. Mungo's. Two more aurors stood guard, flanking the wizard and scowling at the three people who'd broken the tranquility of the place. As the guards at the door had done, they cast anti-glamour and revealing charms on the trio. "You look way better than the last time I saw you!" That being yesterday.

Kingsley tried to sit up in bed; failing that, he merely smiled at the youth. "I should hope so. From what I understand, I was in a coma with multiple severe injuries."

Jacinta, who'd slipped in around Reg, nodded along with him. "Your face was all sewn up and you looked…well, bad. Horrible, actually. It was a dreadful sight."

"I see you inherited your father's tact, Miss Snape Mulciber," Kingsley said, chuckling. "Who's this other young man?"

Theo came to stand beside the bed, head down, eyes flicking up apprehensively. Being the son of a notorious, presumed-dead Death Eater had surely proceeded him. "I'm Theo Nott," he said quietly.

"Well, Theo Nott, I owe you and Jacinta and Regulus not only heartfelt thanks, but undying gratitude. You saved my life."

"You were being cared for," Theo answered, shrugging one shoulder.

"You know as well as I do that muggle medicine often isn't sufficient," Shacklebolt replied. "I might never have regained consciousness, and may even have died there with no one even knowing who I was or where I belonged."

"But you didn't," Reg piped up, nudging Theo to try animating him. "We heard about you on the telly and came to have a look, and there you were."

Kingsley laughed again, this time harder, and then he held his head as he winced from the pain. Wizard medicine may outdo muggle, but it still took time to heal fully. "Indeed, Regulus Black. I haven't had time to think of a proper way to thank you all, so for now my words will have to do. If ever you need something that I am equipped to give you, please do not hesitate to stop into my office."

Taking this as a sign the Minister wished to dismiss the three, one of the aurors proceeded to herd them toward the door, with the admonition that the wizard needed his rest, but they were precluded from leaving by Lucius blocking the doorway. They fell back out of habit as he strolled past them, dipping his head in greeting at each one. Swirling his cloak about him, he stopped at the foot of the Minister's bed, cane gripped tightly in hand; when one of the aurors attempted to pry it from him, he wrenched it away and glared haughtily down his nose at the man until he backed down.

"Mr. Malfoy, thank you for coming," began Kingsley, waving for the auror to desist.

"Minister Shacklebolt, it's good to see you safe and thriving," Lucius responded, face a blank slate. He wasn't entirely certain why he'd been summoned, although if it held true to form, he wasn't going to like it. Why hadn't Regulus had the sense to notify him of Shacklebolt's situation so that _he_ might have been the one to save him?

Kingsley, who a moment ago held an expression of lightheartedness and cheer, now looked somber, even repentant. "Mr. Malfoy, I owe you a tremendous apology. In principle my aurors were doing their job, but they fell down in not checking out your story, not trying to verify that you had nothing to do with my disappearance."

"Because of which I was summarily hauled off to a wretched jail and held on false charges, while my name was dragged through the mud," Lucius continued for him, piercing him with steely grey eyes.

"I agree. I've ordered a special report in the _Daily Prophet_ to set the record straight."

"I read it. Will you also be sacking those responsible?" asked Lucius, not really believing he'd get his way on this one. It didn't hurt to try.

"No. But they will be reprimanded and compelled to attend more training," Shacklebolt said. He hesitated, grimacing in a way wholly unrelated to physical pain. "When I'm up and around again, I will make a public statement myself to assure the populace that this isn't a ploy by the newspaper."

"Good." While it was less than Lucius would like, it was more than he'd hoped for, so all in all he couldn't complain…well, he _wouldn't_, at any rate. "What of the werewolf?"

"He has not been caught yet. I was able to pinpoint a location for my aurors of where the field is located, the one where he held me and tortured me. They're staking it out."

"Good," Lucius repeated, shielding his relief at the close call. Only yesterday he and his cohorts had spun a web ward on the clearing; if they had not removed it shortly after, the aurors might have discovered it and gone looking for whoever made it. If found, that could prove disastrous for them all. "He's stolen Charlotte. Did they tell you?"

"Yes. That's very unfortunate." He lay back on the pillow, exhausted. "I'm sorry, we're doing all we can. I do need to sleep now." He motioned at one of the aurors. "Again, thank you Regulus, Theo, and Jacinta. Good day, Mr. Malfoy."

"Good day, Minister." Lucius flashed a well practiced, mouth-only smile. He'd got some of what he came for. That would do…for now.


	83. Magic in the Air

17

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 83 (Magic in the Air)

**March 13, 2001**

Things had been heating up in the discussion between Tanassov and the veelas as they waited for Neville and Aline to return with the Longbottoms, and frankly the wizard didn't think it appropriate for his son to listen to it. Even though Marcus was busy playing with the talasam in the lab, he didn't need to hear the discord, whether he understood it or not.

"Dora, otvedi Markus v moya kabinet, ako obichash." (_Dora, take Marcus into my office, please_) Tanassov instructed the talasam.

The wee white creature that looked like a powder puff with stick-like arms and legs stopped chasing the giggling lad and, unable to nod for lack of a neck, she bent her spindly legs in a bob resembling a tiny curtsy. One of the very few talasams able to communicate in human speech, she answered from a mouth hidden by the voluminous hair, "Razbira se, Dimitre. Markus, idvai." (_Of course, Dimitar. Come along, Marcus_.)

She held out her frail hand, which the boy took. "Tya dosta malka." (_It so little_) Marcus said in broken Bulgarian. He held up his own alongside hers. "Vizh? Moya po-golyama." (_See? Mine bigger_.)

"Malka no silna." (_Small but strong_) she said puffing herself out a tiny bit larger. "Byagai da se skriesh v na tati kabineta. Az shte te namerya." (_Go hide in your tate's office. I'll find you._)

"Niama!" (_Will not!_) he called out, laughing. He sprinted down the corridor to his father's office; Dora meandered after him, entered, and shut the door behind them.

Tanassov now turned back to the veelas, concern etched on his features. Stana shook her head, weary of this pointless debate. Dimitar feared for Neville Longbottom and his parents, feared they might be harmed by the potion in Neville's selection of the wrong ingredient. Well, wasn't that the whole point of making him choose to begin with? If there was no risk, there could be no cure. She could not explain to Dimitar the complexities involved, not until after the fact; the magic could not work if she did, and everything would be for nothing!

She sighed lightly. She had told him all she could; she'd even given him the final ingredient on a slip of parchment. What about it did he not understand? Or more aptly, what was he misunderstanding? Whatever the case, she dared not say another word about it. "Bez tazi sastavka, nastoikata nyama da svarshi rabota." (_Without this factor, the potion can not work._) She crossed her arms as if to indicate the discussion was closed.

"No na kakva tsena?" (_At what cost?_) Tanassov responded hotly.

Here Dimna stepped in. She'd watched the two wrangle for the last fifteen minutes, getting nowhere, and it wore on her nerves. "Dimitre, razbirame, che imash nai-dobri namereniya, no tova tryabva da e Nevilovo reshenie. Ti ne mozhe da se namesvash." (_Dimitar, we realize you have the best of intentions, but this decision belongs to Neville. You can not interfere._)

Primed for another round, Tanassov began to reply when from the corridor Aline and Neville came in, each leading one of the Longbottoms. He wisely elected to stop the argument before information leaked out that must not be known. He greeted the couple cordially and introduced them to the veelas, who nodded and smiled. He thought at that moment how false the veelas appeared to him, though to mention such a thing would be to cause them to leave and perhaps never return. As he'd never known them to be underhanded or cruel, he had to trust them now.

Not wasting any time, Stana beckoned the group to come to the table where she'd poured a miniature goblet of a hearty, red wine. Beside it were several more goblets and a tiny vial half full of a murky green liquid. Dipping a glass rod into the vial, she drew out a single drop of the potion, which she let fall into the wine. Even that single drop lowered the level in the vial substantially. She lifted the goblet and handed it to Neville.

"Thank you," he murmured automatically. He stared down into the glass, then up at his parents. This was it, the defining moment. Had he chosen correctly? No one had bothered to tell him, although Aline had said jobberknoll feathers were a rarity used in memory potions. Maybe it had been planted there for him to find and recognize.

He turned to his mother, extending the cup. Alice reached for it, but he suddenly pulled it back. "I can't. I have to know it's safe."

Alice's eyes conveyed pity for the poor young man. He wanted so badly to cure them, probably more than she wanted it herself. "I'm willing to try it, Neville."

"But I'm not," he answered stubbornly. "I'm not willing to risk your life, Mum, or Dad's either. I'd rather die than lose you again." So saying, before anyone realized what he was doing, he tilted his head back and gulped the liquid down.

"What are you doing?" exclaimed Aline.

Neville grimaced over the wretched taste, poorly masked by the wine. "Now we wait. If I don't die, we can try it on my parents."

A low humming sound that began nowhere filled the space; it grew louder until the humming seemed to fill every corner of the room, till it throbbed in the chest of every person there. A bright flash of light coming from Neville settled upon the lab table, most specifically on the vial of memory potion, and the murky liquid started to clear. Gradually it turned from looking like pond scum into a crystal clear, emerald green fluid that shimmered and swirled within itself as if it were alive. When it had finished, the light beam dissipated, leaving all the humans to marvel.

Stana stepped to the middle of the group, smiling broadly. She dipped two fingers into the pouch round her waist, drew out the jobberknoll feather, and let it float to the table. She let loose a hasty string of Bulgarian that Tanassov didn't even try to translate till she had finished. At one point she turned to Neville, speaking to him.

Feeling silly for the row with the veelas only a short time ago, Tanassov paraphrased her speech. "They do not use the ingredient picked by the supplicant of the Oblivion Wine; that could be dangerous. Neither do they supply medicine for those who seek to satisfy a selfish desire, and their magic will not work for such a person. Neville, she commends you for displaying voluntary self-sacrifice. It is the final ingredient, and without it the potion would have failed. The potion you drank was harmless, but also useless; not until the magic transforms it can it be effective."

He turned to Stana and offered her his hand in acknowledgment of his folly. She took it between both of hers, clasping it tightly, then let him go. He was only a man, after all, she shouldn't expect him to understand everything.

So relieved his knees knocked and he felt weak to the point of almost fainting, Neville managed to ask, "Does this mean it will work?"

Stana and Dimna nodded together. Dimna prepared two of the tiny goblets of wine, and placed exactly one drop of the now-emerald green formula into each glass. She gestured for Neville to take them, which he did, and handed one to each of his parents. Frank took his cup and sniffed it almost suspiciously, wrinkling his nose at the smell, but he drank it down. Alice took the cup boldly and swallowed the wine in one gulp.

For a minute the room was eerily quiet. Frank's cheek ticked up a few times, and Alice blinked repeatedly like she'd woke from a dream and wasn't quite sure where she was. Then they looked at one another and slow smiles spread over their faces.

"When I was young I used to love skipping rope," Alice said, wide eyed like a child.

Frank nodded, grinning. "I used to throw rocks at you and your friends." He snickered to himself. Another minute passed, and their demeanor changed a bit more. "Do you remember the first time I asked you to dance?"

Alice ducked her head like a teenager, blushing. "At your coming of age party. Everyone thought you'd ask Dorotea Xavier, and they were so amazed when you came to me."

"There was never anyone but you, Alice," he said softly, taking her hand as she laid her head on his shoulder. "Our wedding was so perfect."

As one they both stood up straighter, their gazes shooting to Neville as they exclaimed, "Neville!" They peered keenly at him, studying him up and down.

"My baby," Alice murmured, holding out a hand to stroke his cheek.

"My son is all grown up," Frank added in wonder.

Neville took hold of his parents' hands, afraid to believe it was so, although he'd heard it for himself. "You remember me," he said, and for the first time in his life it was not a question. More loudly he cried, "You remember me!"

Bursting into tears of joy, he threw himself into their arms, and the three clung to each other for dear life, alternately sobbing and laughing, talking all at once.

While he waited to see what would come next, Tanassov took from his pocket the parchment Stana had given him and he read it over again, this time with a whole new understanding: _He who would bring light to another must walk through darkness himself._ It hadn't meant what he'd thought at all! Neville didn't have to lose his own memory, he simply had to brave the unknown—the darkness, the belief that he might suffer or even die for those he wished to save! Believing that, he had to be willing to accept the consequences. And he had done so brilliantly.

He looked to his right, where Aline had sidled up beside him. She tipped her head ever so slightly at the table where the vial lay. "There's enough left for one dose, it seems," she said. "Do you think the veelas might allow me to take it for someone in need?"

Tanassov didn't ask who, mainly because he wasn't sure he wanted to know. This ordeal had been—well, an ordeal, and he didn't wish to repeat it any time soon. He shook his head. "No. Neville is the only one who could do that, since it was made for him."

The point was rendered moot only a moment later when Dimna picked up the vial, carried it to the sink, and proceeded to empty the droplet out and run cold water in to flush the vial clean. She turned to the Potions instructors with a smile reminiscent of mischievous victory. Had she heard them talking and deduced what the subject matter had been? If so, she had a succinct, final way of ending the discussion.

"Never mind," Aline said, turning her eyes back to the Longbottoms.

It hadn't been a good idea anyway. Gilderoy Lockhart was happy in his current situation, even if that meant devoid of all his previous memories. If he were to regain his senses, he'd be put on trial for trying to assault, possibly kill, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, not to mention all the wizards he'd stolen charms and inventions from, and who knew what else. He was better off where he was.

Neville broke away from his parents and walked directly to Stana, bowing from the waist and extending a hand as he looked to Tanassov to translate. "Luna tells me that veelas like to dance. It's poor payment for all you've done, but it's all I have. Would you do me the honour?"

Stana inclined her head, a light smile touching her lips. Neville led her to the space between the rows of tables, took her hand and placed his arm round her waist, and began slowly, very slowly at first, to whirl her around, humming an old song he'd learned as a boy from his Gran. Frank joined in, raising his voice in song, a strong, rich baritone that took the veelas by surprise, the words of the ditty coming to him from so far away, so long ago. He bowed to Alice, who curtsied and took his hand, and as the others looked on in amused elation at the unfolding of the day's events, they danced in the aisle of a Potions lab beside their son.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 15, 2001**

"Hello."

The Goodman brothers whirled as one, jumping away from each other with their wands drawn, and froze before blasting the intruder off the face of the Earth. Swearing under his breath, Dolph slipped his wand back into his pocket, while Rab continued to glower at the man.

Suddenly Rab snapped, "Marshal, you stupid wanker! Do you have a death wish? Has your little, bitty mind forgotten our past association, with its need to be on guard?"

"Someone needs a nap," Marshal replied, smirking.

"Someone needs a fist upside the head," retorted Dolph, turning back around to resume his journey home. As anticipated, Marshal fell into step with the brothers.

"I figured it was about time for you to be heading home, and I thought I'd accompany you," said Marshal as though he hadn't just gotten the drop on the brothers and pissed them off. "I've got a date with Ophelia, and I may as well pick her up from there."

Neither Dolph nor Rabby responded, they all merely walked on in silence for the remaining block. As they turned onto the path leading to Dolph's house, the neighbor's dog barked fiercely at them from behind the locked gate. Dolph made a motion like killing it with the wand of his finger, and Rab ignored it altogether.

Rab said, "I suppose it's good you've come. No one has found Greyback yet, and Dolph and I decided we need to devise a strategy to get rid of that werewolf once and for all."

Marshal's face lit up. "It's about time. Since Shacklebolt cleared Malfoy, I've been wondering why nobody mentioned hunting and slaughtering the beast."

They marched up the steps and Dolph magically unlocked the door, letting the others enter before him, and closing it securely behind him. The smell of roasting meat and vegetables wafted in the air, making his stomach tighten; he hadn't realized how hungry he was.

"Hi, Ophelia," he said, shrugging off his cloak and hanging it on a peg inside the door. Noting that the lad hadn't come to greet him as per usual, he added, "Where's Timothy?"

Ophelia stuck her head out from the kitchen. "Good evening, Mr. Goodman. Hello, Dr. Goodman. Timothy's in the garden playing with your dog." Her eyes lit on her boyfriend and she gave a confused-yet-pleased smile. "Wallace, what are you doing here?"

"We have a date," he answered as he snuggled in behind to her, hugging her about the waist and nuzzling at her neck.

"In an hour! I haven't finished here yet. The food won't come out for ten minutes, and then I need to go home and get ready." Nonetheless, she relaxed into his arms.

"You look beautiful and smell wonderful," he answered in a deep croon.

"I smell like roast beef," she laughed.

"Which I happen to love." He reached round to kiss her, then spun her to face him so he could snog properly. He nibbled at her neck and licked up along the side of her face. "Yummy."

"Get a room!" Rab shouted from the dining area where a stack of books sat on the table. He leafed through a few of them before addressing his brother who had fetched himself a bottle of beer and was lounging on the couch. "Are these Timothy's school books?"

Dolph swallowed a large gulp of beer. "Yeah, why?"

"He's progressed quite a lot in such a short time," said Rabby, definitely impressed. "Mr. Ulysses must be an excellent teacher."

Dolph snorted. "Maybe. I like to think it's because _my son_ is exceptionally bright, like his father." He laughed at the expressions on the faces of his brother and Marshal. The witch seemed to have no opinion other than the dreamy look centered on her beau. "Ophelia, if you want to go home, Marshal can finish cooking the meal. Isn't that right, Marshal?"

"Are you sure? It isn't much longer," the woman inquired.

"Yeah, go on. I can cook as well as you," Marshal replied in Dolph's stead, then quickly amended his statement to, "Almost as well, my dear. And the sooner you leave, the sooner we can sha—we can go on our date." He leered at her and she bit her lip, snickering.

Ophelia slipped the apron over her head and handed it to Marshal, washed her hands, and rushed to the door to pick up her cloak. "Thank you, Mr. Goodman. Enjoy your meal." She winked at Marshal as she said, "See you in a little while." In a moment she was gone.

"Alright, let's get down to business; I'd like to get home to my wife, too," said Rabby. He settled into a chair facing the sofa. "Greyback has Charlotte. We can take for granted he still wants the other kids from his pack, even if he can't find them. Barring that, he'll probably create more."

"He can't get at the rest, including Timothy," Marshal called in from the kitchen. "So I think it's safe to assume he'll start making more tiny werewolves."

"Why?" asked Dolph, leaning back and crossing his legs. "Why would he make others? I can see wanting the ones he'd bonded with, but he built the army for Voldemort. He doesn't have that incentive anymore." He pensively swirled the beer round and round in the bottle before slugging the whole thing down.

"He hates wizards," Rab reminded him. "He thinks if there are enough werewolves, people will have to take them seriously and give them more rights."

"He's batshit crazy, just like—" Marshal halted in mid-sentence. He'd come perilously close to forgetting that Bella was a taboo topic, and broaching it was asking for trouble. "Supper's about done." He pulled the roast from the oven and set it on the stove.

From outside, they heard barking that rapidly transformed to loud growling and snarling.

"I hate that f—king dog," Dolph remarked. "The neighbor's mutt, I mean."

A second later a scream sounded, and it was definitely human. Dolph was out of his seat like a shot, running for the back door, followed closely by his brother and companion, all of them prepared for battle. They burst out the door onto the porch to see a tall, dark grey mastiff on its hind legs, seemingly dancing with Tim. Its snout snapped at his face as he shrieked and backed up, futilely trying to push the animal away. All at once the dog flew backward very hard and very fast; it struck the wooden fence with a thunderous crash and fell to the ground.

Dolph jumped off the porch and grabbed Tim, who was shaking uncontrollably. He hurriedly examined the boy for injury, and when his inspection turned up blood on the boy's arm, his fury flared. Ripping back the sleeve, he saw deep puncture wounds from the canine teeth. He whirled, ready to curse the dog to its final rest, when he noted Marshal standing beside it, poking it with his boot toe.

"It's dead," Marshal said plainly, unconcerned.

"Are you alright, Timothy?" asked Rabby, who knelt beside the boy's cream-coloured dog. It whimpered and shoved its nose at him.

"Is Dog okay?" answered Tim, oblivious to his own pain at the moment. He stared helplessly at his pet on the lawn.

"He'll be fine," Rab answered. _After a trip to the clinic and some minor surgery, that is_. He cast a sleeping charm on the animal and turned to the boy.

"It attacked Dog and I tried to stop it," Tim said. Tears had begun trickling from his eyes.

Marshal sauntered over, not yet aware of the lad's injury. "Dog? You still never gave that dumb creature a name?"

"Shut the f—k up, Marshal," Dolph said in a growl. "My son is hurt!"

"Oh, sorry." He came near and watched as Rab and Dolph together examined the bite wound.

"It'll be alright, I can heal it without involving anyone else," said Rab. "It's a good thing you got the dog away from him when you did."

"I didn't do that," Dolph said, peering at the others, who also wordlessly shook their heads, then fixed their eyes on the animal lying by the fence.

Marshal laughed as he quipped, "Gotta say, that kid of yours is strong, Dolph. That beast must weigh as much as he does, and he threw it away like it was nothing. Crushed its skull besides." He sounded impressed.

Dolph went to the fence to have a look for himself. As he studied the carcass, he drew the back of his hand over his brow, stymied. It was a heavy animal, and Tim was by no stretch of the imagination a powerful lad. He was still skinny, though beginning to fill out…he hadn't the ability to do this. Yet here it was. The thing that bothered Dolph the most was that he'd been certain the mastiff had been pulled away by a spell. He knew magic when he saw it. And even if he was wrong, the impact should not have caused the amount of damage sustained either by the dog or the fence, which buckled out in cracked boards into the neighbor's yard. His heart skipped a beat to think Greyback may have been here under a disillusion charm, that he'd been the one to save Timothy in his quest to kidnap him.

In a calm, level tone he said, "Rabby, take Timothy into the house and fix him, will you? Marshal, we need to dispose of this creature. Can you carry it over a few streets and leave it, make it look like it got hit by a car?"

"Not a problem." Marshal took out his wand, bent over the fence, and aimed at the neighbor's gate. A quick _alohomora_ unlocked it, and the gate creaked open. "Details," he said, grasping hold of the dog before he disapparated.

Dolph used his wand to cast a _homenum revelio_ on the yard, which turned up nothing. That was a good sign. He set about to repair the fence, then to fill in the hole the dog had dug in order to climb underneath. He levitated a large rock from the end of his garden to set over the spot, effectively blocking view of the raw earth. Heaving a troubled sigh, he went into the house.

Rabby had peeled away the sleeve and ripped it off at the elbow, exposing the boy's forearm. He'd finished washing Tim's wound and drawing out any poison, and was in the process of healing the muscle and skin. Dolph patiently waited for him to finish. The skin rapidly grew to cover the vanished puncture wounds, and another spell dissipated any remnants of bruised flesh.

"Timothy, come here," Dolph said, motioning the boy into the living room, where he seated himself on the sofa and indicated for the boy to do the same. Tim slinked in and perched on the edge of the couch, looking at the floor. "Did you smell Greyback out there?"

Tim's head whipped up, fear in his eyes. "No. Why, is he here?"

Dolph let out a relieved breath. That left him with option two. "No, he's not. Did you kill that dog?"

"I didn't mean to," mumbled the youth. He lifted tear-filled eyes to the man, pleading to be understood. "I swear I didn't, it just happens."

"This has happened before?" asked Marshal. He'd come in the back door and stood next to Rab, who was watching with interest. Grinning, he said, "Better watch him, Goodman, he's dangerous."

"Get over here so I can punch you," Dolph snarled, to which Marshal shook his head and retreated into the kitchen. He set his gaze upon Tim, who had returned to staring at the floor. "Explain what you mean."

Sniffling and choking on his own tears, Tim answered, "That time when I was little, when that man hurt me…the room caught on fire." Suddenly recalling that his father was a firefighter, and he'd likely take it as arson, Tim bawled hysterically, "I didn't do it, I didn't!"

Rab had moved fully into the room now, engrossed in what was unfolding. He exchanged astonished glances with his brother. He could tell they were both thinking the same thing. "Was there any other strange occurrence?"

Tim gulped, but he obediently responded in a tiny voice, "Um…I—at school, before I got taken by Greyback, there was this bully who used to beat me up and tease me all the time. Once, when he was hitting me, I got really scared, I thought he was gonna kill me. His fingers kind of bent backward all at once and…they broke. I didn't touch him."

Dolph ran his hand through his hair, incredulous, excited, speechless for a long moment. He'd never in a million years hoped for this, and here it had been thrown into his lap—right? He hoped he was right. He could admit in the silence of his heart that he loved Timothy no matter what, but if it was true? It would make things all the better. "Do you know what this means?"

"You're gonna make me leave," Tim cried, sliding off the couch onto his bum, his legs drawn up to his chest He cradled his head in his arms and began to sob in earnest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Idiot child," Dolph drawled. He got up and pulled the boy up by the scruff of the neck and set him on his feet. "I'm not going to send you away. You're my son. Got it?"

"You mean it?" Tim asked shakily, futilely wiping at the stream of tears. When Dolph nodded, the boy lurched forward to grab the man about the waist and clung there for dear life.

Dolph draped one arm round the kid and patted his back lightly. The situation felt awkward, and at the same time incredibly good, like he'd accomplished something very important. "Unless I'm grossly mistaken, you've been doing accidental magic. If that's the case, it means you're a wizard." He beamed, and Rabby and Marshal did the same.

Gobsmacked, Tim let the words penetrate his brain. His weeping ceased, to be replaced with an apprehensive excitement. "But-but how? There's nobody magic in my family."

"You might be a mudblood," said Marshal, who quickly revised his comment to, "Muggleborn."

"It happens," Rabby interjected, afraid to get his hopes up. "Tomorrow my brother can take you to get a wand. If one chooses you, then you'll know."

Tim looked shyly up at Dolph, who stood over him grinning like a dufus. "Can I really be like you?"

Dolph set his hands on the boy's shoulders, a voice in his head saying, _Don't aspire to that, kid. Aim a little higher._ He desperately wanted it to be so, but he dared not expect too much. "I think it's possible. We'll soon find out."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Charlotte sat on the ground outside Pa's cabin, looking out over the peat moors. The nearest neighbor, if you could call it that, was so far away she couldn't even see a house from here. She folded her arms around herself, sparse protection from the chilling wind. Even with a jacket on, she felt cold. It was going to rain, Pa had said. He knew this area; having lived here so long, there was no reason to disbelieve him.

Earlier today she'd seen some men, though she had no intention of telling Greyback or Pa. They'd made it plain that muggles in their territory would be slaughtered on sight, especially if she took it in her head to ask the intruders for help in escaping…she had no doubt they would carry through on that threat. She supposed they'd try to kill wizards, too, except magical folk had ways of getting the hell out of the way of spells. As she didn't want anyone hurt or killed on her account, and she didn't even know where she was, it made no sense to try escaping. Besides, what would a muggle say if she ran off and told him she was being held captive by a werewolf? He'd have her committed to a loony bin, that's what!

She'd been walking aimlessly and saw the strangers coming from one of the caves in the area, one of the extensive network that Greyback had pointed out to her, saying they were excellent places to take refuge if necessary. She couldn't tell if the blokes had been wizards or not, though she didn't recall ever seeing muggles as odd as those two.

_She heard a noise in the distance, the sound of voices, and she was certain it hadn't been Greyback's guttural tone. Curious, she'd walked on till she got to the entrance of one of the larger caves dipping into the earth; she laid down and stuck her face over the rim to look. A second later she shrieked and jumped back, panting._

_ A fellow with long, dark hair held in a ponytail on top of his head popped his face up and turned to her. Enormous eyes—one brown, one blue—greeted her through goggles that magnified them grotesquely. "Oh, hello. I didn't know anyone else was here," Peragro Locus said pleasantly._

_ "Uh…hello," she answered awkwardly. "I heard voices."_

_ A second man popped up beside the first, his shoulder length, white hair flowing freely, and thus coated with slimy mud from the cave. Recent rains had made them unpleasant, at best, and Charlotte failed to see why anyone would explore them in this weather._

_ "Peragro, what—oh, a visitor! How lovely." Xenophilius Lovegood held out a hand to shake. It being also blackened with mud, Charlotte refrained and simply nodded._

_ "What are you doing?" she asked._

_ "Hunting," answered Peragro, shaking his head so his goggled eyes looked like a monster bobbing its head._

_ "Without weapons?" she queried, noting their lack of gun or bow. _

_ "Searching might be a better term," said Lovegood, pointing into the cave. "I've a notion that we might find Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in here. They like cold, wet areas, and caves certainly qualify." He winked at her, adding conspiratorially, "I also got a tip."_

_ "What's a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?" Charlotte asked. "I've never heard of such a thing."_

_ Xenophilius looked at his friend and shook his head sadly. "Another skeptic. One day, once we've caught one, the world will finally believe."_

_ "Well, nice chatting with you, but we really must get back to work. Just came up for a breath of fresh air," said Locus. He disappeared down the hole as quickly as he'd come out._

_ "Bye!" she called after him. "Nice meeting you."_

_ "Lovegood, I hear something!" Locus shouted._

_ Lifting his white brows in anticipated excitement, Xenophilius delivered a hurried goodbye and sank into the cave, leaving Charlotte alone once more. Weirdos, she thought, though they did make her smile. At least they were nice weirdos. Maybe she'd see them again._

She sighed, got up, and opened the door a crack to hear Greyback saying, "If you come with me, we stand a much better chance of getting him. I'm sure he's well-guarded now." She quickly closed the door almost all the way, pressing her ear to the gap.

Pa merely finished off his coffee and set the cup down, then turned his head to the doorway where a sliver of light came through. "I see you, Charlotte. And I hear and smell you, so come on in."

Embarrassed to have forgotten how sensitive the old man's ears were, she opened the door and stomped in right up to Greyback. "You're planning to go get Henry, aren't you?"

"He's my pack," Greyback answered evasively.

"You promised. You said if I stayed with you willingly, you'd leave him alone," Charlotte said, her voice rising.

"You want to see him, don't deny it," he shot back. "One way or the other, he's coming back to his family, so get over it."

"You're a liar."

Greyback slapped her face, the force of it knocking her to the floor, barely missing the table leg with her head. "I am still your leader, and you'll show respect."

From her prone position, she kicked upward into his groin, sending waves of nausea through him and causing him to double over in agony. He fell to the floor next to her, ready to choke her after a fierce bout of vomiting when Pa stepped in—figuratively.

"Knock it off!" he growled, not leaving his seat. "It does no good to fight amongst ourselves." He dragged Charlotte over next to him, leaving Greyback to stagger to his feet and plop onto the only remaining chair.

"He is a liar," Charlotte insisted stubbornly, sulking.

Sucking back his pride as well as a desperate desire to puke, Greyback demanded, "Were you happier there? Didn't you say they forced you to take that Wolfsbane, and it made you so sick? And that Potter's girlfriend was always on his arse about having werewolves in the house?"

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "But Henry can take the Wolfsbane, and he _is_ happy there. Why can't our pack just be the three of us now?"

"Because he's mine," Greyback retorted, every bit as stubbornly as the girl.

"Drop it, both of you," Pa interjected. "Chances are good they've moved Henry, so it don't much matter. Till we know anything, ain't no point in making a fuss. Fenrir, bring in the last of the peat for the fire and go collect more, the place is like ice in here. Charlotte, make some soup. After I eat I'm taking a nap, and Merlin help the one of you who wakes me up."


	84. Up Where We Belong

17

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 84 (Up Where We Belong)

**September 4, 1937** **(Saturday)**

_"Tom?" A little girl in drab grey dress and bobbed yellow hair slinked down the dingy grey corridor, looking left and right. She tapped on the doorframe beside his room, then poked her head inside. Finding him gone, she turned about and raised her arm to signal to a group of kids ranging in age from eight to twelve. _

_ They crept from an alcove near the corner and slipped into his room, whispering excitedly to one another. While two boys stood guard at the door, another reached up to the back of Tom's top shelf and hauled down the duffel bag packed with his wizarding things. He tossed it casually onto the bed, its springs squeaking under the scant weight. Unceremoniously he ripped open the tie and the girls with him dumped the objects onto the bed._

_ "Books!" shrilled one of them. "What a dork."_

_ "Look at the titles," said the next girl, lifting a red-bound one. "A History of Magic. A Beginner's Guide to Trans…Transfig…Transfig..you..ration—whatever that is!" She scowled and threw it onto the stack of things._

_ "Lookit me!" One of the boys had taken Tom's cauldron and placed it upside down on his head like a helmet. In his fist he brandished Tom's wand. "I'm a knight, come to save yon fair lady."_

_ "Look at these ridiculous clothes! Is he dressing for Halloween?" laughed a boy, holding up a suit of black robes and pointed black hat._

_ "The gloves are kind of nice," admitted the boy with the wand, dropping it onto the bed long enough to pull them on. "Now I have gauntlets."_

_ "I'm a vampire," giggled the girl who'd waved them into the room to begin with. She swirled the black cloak round her shoulders and pranced to and fro, bucking out her front teeth in an attempt to look menacing. _

_ "What do you think these are for?" asked a girl, holding up the set of glass vials. "Bottling blood?" She giggled along with the cape-girl._

_ The oldest boy had abandoned his post at the door to come in and examine the booty. He picked up the large tubular object, extended the eyepiece, and stared into the tube. "I've heard of these—they're called telescopes!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Where'd Tom Riddle get the money for this?"_

_ "Probably stole everything," answered someone._

_ "Hey! That's mine!" Tom bellowed from the doorway. Try as he might to move forward, to make them leave it be and go away, he could not make his feet cooperate._

_ The lad with the telescope sneered. "I'm telling on you. You'll get in such trouble, they'll never let you outside again. You'll rot here in this room."_

_ "And they'll take back all this stuff you stole, thief," warbled the youngest girl._

_ "I didn't," Tom said, his voice coming out in breathy, barely audible gasps. "It's mine." He tried to raise a lead-filled arm, to no avail. They had his wand! His feet remained rooted to the floor._

_ "Fight you for them," said the boy with the cauldron on his head. He lifted the wand in a dragonskin-gloved hand and pointed it at Riddle. "Come on, chicken."_

_ "No, put it down," Tom rasped, growing very afraid._

_ "Make me." From the tip of the wand burst forth a smattering of gold dust, which came shooting at Tom. _

_ Tom ducked his head and raised an arm for protection._

Tom shuddered and lifted his head from the table, where it had been laying half on his arm on top of an open book. A deep crease had engraved itself into his cheek and along his temple. He blinked blearily and looked around, slightly embarrassed to have fallen asleep in the library. No one seemed to have noticed; in fact, there didn't seem to be many students left. He sighed in relief; it had been an asinine dream, one that hopefully no one had witnessed. He hoped he hadn't talked in his sleep; he'd heard some people did that.

Wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth with one sleeve, he closed the book and studied the title briefly: _Transfigure Your Way to a Better You_. Seriously, did these authors deliberately strive for a sense of inanity…or did they simply have no sense, period? He snickered at his private joke.

It was evidently getting late, and he wondered why no prefect had come to tell him to get to his dorm. Had he missed supper, too? He wasn't hungry anyway, he had too much work to do, what with writing this paper for class in order to free his time to do something actually useful, like practicing transformations in the courtyard. Leaving the book on the table, he got up and headed for the Slytherin common room, the dream still playing in his head. It bothered him to think about those times in the orphanage, to recall that he'd have to go back there come summer time. No one would touch his things, of that he was sure, nor would they dare taunt him so openly when he knew they feared him, but he nevertheless had no desire to return there. For now, he'd concentrate on the beneficial things, like learning as much as he could before that fateful last day of class. If he could stay here forever, he would.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 16, 2001**

_Sept. 4, 1937_

_ This is my first weekend at Hogwarts, away from the orphanage. I scarcely know how to feel, except relieved. Yes, that's the word—relieved. All those years with the muggles, putting up with their idiocy, and finally I have found where I belong. We've had three days of classes already, and while I find them challenging because I've not had the opportunity to practice real magic before, I wholly enjoy it. Some of the kids complain that it's hard, or they miss home; they wouldn't miss home if it were an orphanage, I can tell you that!_

_ I have a paper to write in transfiguration class. It makes no sense. Why not just teach us the spells instead of the theory behind them? I don't bloody care about theory, I want my magic!_

Therese closed the diary, her forehead wrinkled in agitation. Like Tom, she'd been excited about coming to Hogwarts, though obviously not as excited as Tom. Then again, she hadn't been raised among people who cared nothing for her, feared her, thought her strange. She'd been raised in a magical family, secure in the love there, secure in her own abilities…it wasn't till Tom had begun taking over her mind that she'd experienced true desperation, the deep seated need to excel and be the best—to prove herself worthy of her magic.

Until this moment she'd never thought of it like that. In a convoluted way, Tom needed to prove to himself, or perhaps to everyone else, that he deserved to be as powerful as he was. He had to show leadership, because leadership equated to power. What better way to demonstrate his superiority—and therefore deservedness—than to rule over the magical world?

"Therese, come on, it's time for supper!" Jonathan Avery poked her in the back. "You study too much."

"It's a library, that's what it's for," Therese answered drolly. She stuffed the diary deep into the front pocket of her robe and buttoned the flap closed to be on the safe side. Turning to her friend, she smiled. He really was cute. Wouldn't it be nice if they had a school dance and he asked her to accompany him?

"Therese! Stop daydreaming." Jonathan grabbed her hand and pulled her out of her seat. "I heard they're having pancakes tonight! Can you believe that? The elves in the kitchen must be smoking some serious pipe weed." He laughed at the expression on her face.

"Yeah, that's weird," she agreed, unable to stop smiling. He hadn't let go of her hand. "Let's go."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 16, 2001**

Holding onto his father's sleeve with one hand and the crumbled candy wrapper with the other, Tim arrived in Salem and promptly fell to his knees. Had he not been grasping Dolph's arm, he might have fallen flat on his face. Prior to this he'd traveled by apparition, which he didn't much care for; this being an extremely long trip, Dolph had decided upon using a portkey, and while the ride was much smoother and less taxing on the stomach, Tim had not been instructed on how to land. Dolph pulled him up without a word, though he did turn his head and smirk. The kid had so much to learn.

And then it hit Dolph: he was in Salem…well, very close to it, anyway. They'd landed at the seashore of Forest River Park, where the air was colder and crisper than in England, and less humid—at least in March. He'd never been here before, though he'd spent a good deal of time in Florida when the dark lord had been headquartered there. He found it expedient to put those times out of his mind, especially now that he had a son to take care of and be a role model for. Role model…not in a million years would he have ever called himself that before! It was a strange feeling, albeit welcome, and one he'd need to get used to.

He drew in a deep breath and craned his neck to look around, uncharacteristically eager about the new venue. It even smelled different, with the aroma of fish and seawater heavy in the air. He smiled at the sun poking through a rim of clouds. When he looked down at his son, he noted the lad excitedly taking in the docile ocean waves and squawking seagulls, the thin band of sand running along the water's edge, the sparse trees spread out over the hill behind them.

"Can we come back here and play before we go home?" asked Tim. "I mean, _you_ don't have to play. I only wanna run through the wood, and climb on the rocks and throw pebbles in the water, and dig in the sand." He lifted his face to Dolph.

The man placed a hand on his shoulder, nodding. "I don't see why not. I haven't done it since I was a boy; it's about time, yeah?" He motioned toward the city in the distance. "We ought to get going."

Following Lucius' directions, Dolph made his way to the entrance to wizarding Salem, ignoring the stares of the muggles along the way. If they were jealous about the way he and Timothy were dressed, that was their problem. He'd entertained the idea of sticking to the familiar and visiting Ollivander, but the risk was simply too great. He might be recognized by that bug-eyed old frump—or Timothy, whose pictures were plastered all over the place, could be compromised. Not to mention that Ollivander might identify Percy Weasley's wand, the one he'd stolen from the man after breaking out of Azkaban.

Once they'd slipped inside the wizarding section, away from muggles, he felt suddenly more at ease. The style of dress varied from the English version a bit here—more for witches than wizards—but it was still old, traditional, comforting. Here was where he belonged…where Timothy belonged. A ball of excitement rose in his chest, and he forced himself to quell it. Until he knew for sure his son was a wizard, he dared not hope.

They walked the slushy, cobblestone streets till they came to _Conn's Wands_, its weathered, unadorned sign swaying in the light breeze. A bell over the door rang as they entered. When Abigail turned around from the counter, Dolph was struck speechless. He'd forgotten she bore such a keen resemblance to Aline, one he found very sexy. He mentally berated himself for allowing that image in. She was married and off-limits, like Aline.

"Hello, I'm Abigail Conn." The witch strode forward in a smooth gait, barely rustling her robe. "You look surprised."

"No. No, not at all," Dolph stammered. "You were at Aline's wedding…I forgot how much she looks like you."

Abby peered at him, making him squirm inwardly. "You know Aline? Yes, your accent, I should have guessed. I'm sorry, I don't remember you. Have we met?"

"No, not really. I was a guest there, a friend of Snape…" Feeling like a dolt, he shook his head and gestured at the boy. "I'm Wendolph Goodman. My son needs a wand. I mean, we think—we thought he was a squib, but now he's done some magic…" _Merlin's balls, can you sound any stupider?_ he chided himself.

Abby turned to Timothy and extended her hand. "Hi, there. I'm Abby."

Tim took her hand, smiling shyly. "I'm Tim. Timothy." If Dad preferred the latter, so did he. "Dad said if a wand chooses me, I'm a wizard."

Smiling benevolently at the child, she leaned in over the counter to whisper in his ear, "Some of us have the gift to feel it…and you are." Her smile broadened at the enthusiastic twinkle in the boy's eyes, the grin so wide his face seemed about to split.

She held his hand for another minute, sifting through his memories and preferences and desires, her joy dimming somewhat. No wonder the boy hadn't known he was a wizard! He'd been born to a muggle mother, no known father, never got a letter, had lived in a clearing with werewolves for four years. He'd never had anyone to discover his ability until Goodman adopted the boy. She felt a soft spot opening toward the man for his kindness to the child—and a werewolf at that. Not many would open their homes to such a lad.

Letting go of Tim's hand, she spun round and snapped her fingers. A box flew from the center of the grid of boxes lining the entire wall, leaving the space empty. It sailed up next to Abigail and hovered above the counter next to the woman, who flipped open the lid and removed the stick of wood. She slid a loving finger over the wand, then sniffed it. A faint essence of wintergreen wafted up.

"This is ten and one half inches, black birch."

"I smell something," Tim piped up. He leaned forward and inhaled a deep whiff. "Yep, that's it."

"Wintergreen," Abby said. "Not many wands retain the aroma, but this one has a unicorn's mane hair as its core. Unicorn tends to amplify the wand's characteristics, which is perfect for a new wizard. This one makes transformations stick longer. Give it a try." She held it out to him; tentatively he reached out and took it.

He looked to Dolph, who nodded encouragingly. He waved the wooden stick lightly in Abigail's direction; she gently turned it aside with one finger so it aimed at the wall. "What am I supposed to do?" asked the lad.

"Think about making something happen," said Abby.

"Okay," he agreed slowly.

Tim aimed at the wall, wondering what he could possibly achieve there. He turned to his left, his wand pointing at Dolph, who jumped out of the way in case of a terrible accident. Looking at the door, he thought he might try to open it—or better yet, make the bell above it ring. That would be cool!

Carefully he aimed the piece of wood at the bell, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips in concentration. At first there was nothing, then a sudden thunderous crack as a red bolt flew from his wand; it struck the bell and sent it flying across the room, where it hit the side window and crashed out into the street amid the shouting of pedestrians.

Dolph and Abby ran to the door to make sure no one had been injured. Tim dropped the wand onto the counter, horror etched on his features. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that!"

After ascertaining that everything was alright, and Abby had repaired the window, the adults came back in. "Do you think we need to amplify his magic that much?" asked Dolph sarcastically, though inside he felt pride swelling.

"It doesn't amplify his magic, Mr. Goodman—that was all Timothy," Abby corrected him. Noting how proud he was of his son, she couldn't help but smile herself. "Like any wand in the hand of a new user, it takes time to control. If you'd like to try another, I have a nine inch oak wand with veela hair." She stopped right before blurting that werewolves generally did best with unicorn and veela cores. She sensed the werewolf issue was a delicate subject.

Dolph was about to speak when Tim interjected softly, "I like this one, Dad. It feels…right. Like it belongs in my hand." He edged close to the counter to touch the wand, reluctant to pick it up without permission, especially after his little accident. At the same time, he couldn't wait to try it again.

"If that's the one you want, you shall have it," Dolph said. He reached into his cloak to remove a sack of gold coins. "How much?"

"Eleven galleons," she answered, and to the lift of his eyebrow at the price she added, "Unicorn tail hair is fairly common, but unicorn manes and veela hair are rare and hard to come by, and therefore more costly than dragon heartstring, phoenix feathers, or pixie dust."

"Pixie dust?" he asked, quirking up the other brow.

"Other wand makers don't use it, but our family has discovered that for certain customers it is ideal." If she hadn't been concerned with embarrassing the young man, she'd have told Goodman about Draco Malfoy's new wand. Draco hadn't been enthralled when told about the pixie dust, but he'd never had a complaint with the wand. "If this price is too steep, we can have Timothy try—"

"The price is no object; I can well afford it," he assured her, feeling vaguely snobby and priggish. He wondered if that was how Lucius felt all the time, and had to smile to himself. "Thank you for your help." He counted out the coins and left them on the counter, then picked up the wand and handed it to the boy. "Put it in your pocket for now. I'll teach you to use it later."

Tim accepted the wand reverently in both hands, his eyes raking over it like a prized treasure. He loved the look of it, the smell of it, the feel of it—everything. And now he could learn to be a real wizard! With it trailing tiny sparks of gold and red, he slipped it into his cloak breast pocket as he'd seen Dad and Uncle Rab do many times, and patted the outside to make sure it was secure. "Thank you, Miss Conn. I'll be careful with it from now on, I promise."

"I know you will, Timothy. Good luck to you. Good day, Mr. Goodman."

"And to you, Miss Conn. Come on, Timothy. We've got some practicing to do before we go home and show everyone what you can do."

So saying, Dolph ushered the boy from the shop, glee so strong in his heart he almost broke into a jig. His son was a wizard! He couldn't wait to tell Ophelia and Mr. Ulysses that his son wasn't a squib after all, and more so he couldn't wait to brag to his friends. Wouldn't Malfoy shit a brick to find out the muggle kid he'd adopted had turned out to be magical? He actually laughed as they walked along, prompting Timothy to look up oddly at him.

Oh, and as for Mr. Ulysses, he'd need to make a change of lesson plans. In addition to teaching Timothy reading, writing, and mathematics, he'd need to begin incorporating whatever first year students at Hogwarts should learn. Maybe he'd drop by Diagon Alley and pick up the first year books; wouldn't want his son behind the others when he started school next year. Being twelve, he should have started Hogwarts last September, so he had a lot of catching up to do…

"What's so funny, Dad?"

Dolph glanced down, not realizing he'd been chuckling. "Nothing. I'm just happy. I was thinking about next year, when you go to Hogwarts."

A dark cloud passed over Tim's face. "I have to go to school? I thought Mr. Ulysses was going to teach me."

"Well, yes, for now. By September you'll know enough magic to go straight to second year at Hogwarts," Dolph explained.

"Would I come home every night?" asked the boy hopefully.

"No, it's a boarding school. You'd be gone till Christmas."

They walked in silence for a short way; by now they had entered the park near where they'd arrived from England. No longer in the mood for playing, Tim slumped along beside his father all the way to the shoreline.

At last he exclaimed, "I don't want to go to school!" The words echoed through the park. He lowered his voice as he continued, "Everyone will hate me! You said yourself that werewolves scare people, and they'd be mean to me. And I…I thought you wanted me with you." His chin dropped onto his chest, and his lips quivered slightly.

"This isn't about me, Timothy, it's about you," Dolph said, pulling up short and halting the boy along with him. "It's what wizards do."

"Not all of them," Tim challenged sullenly.

"I have to do what I think is best for you. I want you to learn to use your magic, son."

"You can teach me."

_Don't yell. Don't yell._ Dolph took a deep breath and let it out in a ten count. He'd heard somewhere that it was supposed to keep a person from flying off the handle…something his father could have used with Rabby, if he'd cared enough to try it. "Forget I said anything, alright? We can talk about it later. Right now, I want to show you a spell that will amaze everyone when we get home."

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"What are you sulking about? We decided not to go after Henry," Greyback growled at the girl sitting by the tiny peat fire.

"You only decided that because you knew he wouldn't be at Grimmauld Place anymore, or he'd have a bunch of people guarding him," retorted Charlotte. "And I'm bored."

Greyback stretched out on his chair, then his lips snarled upward and he barked out a hoarse laugh. "I have the perfect remedy. I taught you how to survive in the wild, so now I can show you how to stalk your victims."

Charlotte peered at him warily. "My victims?"

He rolled his eyes. "How do you think I got my pack? I picked the ones I wanted and followed them around, figured out how to get into their houses, and waited till the full moon—"

"I know all that," she interrupted. "And you didn't usually wait till the full moon. You kidnapped the kids early and bit them the next day so they'd already be at the clearing."

"Whatever!" he snapped back. "If we're to make a new pack, we need to find prospective members."

Charlotte shook her head, staring into the fire. "I'm afraid I'd kill them by accident. I hurt Henry really bad…"

"Because of that Wolfsbane," Greyback spat out, as if it were a poison. "I'll show you how it's done. There's nothing quite like the feeling of creating a new life, ain't that so, Pa?"

The old werewolf bobbed his grizzled head. "I've made quite a few in my time, Fenrir. You turned out best, though. The others hadn't the stomach for building a pack."

"Why do we have to build one?" asked Charlotte timidly, aware of the attitudes of the two men. "It's only more responsibility to take care of kids, and as it is the aurors are looking for you. We may have to run, and with others in tow—"

"If you're jealous, just say so," Fenrir interrupted, smiling wolfishly. "You were always one of my favourites, dear Charlotte. I can't wait till the full moon." He winked at her, but her head was turned away and she didn't see it.

"How come you don't like girls in human form?" she blurted.

He shrugged. He hadn't really thought about it, though over the years he had noticed his preferences changing. "I don't know. I used to, but that's been a long time ago. I find wolf form much more sexy." He purred deep in his throat. "I think you do as well."

She didn't answer. This was going to be her life now, wasn't it? She may as well get used to it once more and accept it, if she was ever to be happy. Unless…if Greyback took her out to instruct her on how to stalk her prey, that meant she'd be outside. Outside, possibly alone at times.

She laid her head on her arms, folded round her knees as she sat in front of the fire. Being outside, unguarded—or guarded at a distance—meant there was a chance of escape. But escape to where? If Henry wasn't at Grimmauld Place anymore, where had they taken him? Where would she go? She still didn't believe Greyback when he said he'd given up on getting back his pack; he wasn't one to give up on what he wanted. Sooner or later he'd try again, and because of that, all bets were off. Any vow she'd made to stay here was as void as his empty promise.

"Okay, teach me," she said softly. "I don't want to steal anyone yet, I only want to learn how to stalk. Is tomorrow alright?"

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It had been a long time since Severus had entered Malfoy Manor via the front door…probably not more than a handful of times since the dark lord had holed up there during the terrible last year of his stranglehold over his minions. Habitually he came by floo now, as it was more convenient than walking to the edge of Hogwarts and apparating, and certainly easier on the babies when traveling. However, he'd been wandering about Knockturn Alley, looking for a rare (and possibly illegal) potion ingredient at one of the less reputable Potions shops when a thought struck him.

Sisidy met him at the door and ushered him in, lamenting that he hadn't brought the beautiful Snape babies, and babbling something about Master's favourite brother and how happy he'd be. Snape grimaced in imitation of a smile, letting her prattle on. What did she mean 'favourite brother'? Who else did Lucius consider one? Malfoy's brother Cassius had died decades ago, when Lucius was a boy, and there was no one Severus was aware of that Lucius was particularly close to. Maybe Regulus, although he was more like a son.

He seated himself in the parlor while Sisidy scampered off to find her master. The leather chair was butter soft, yielding, and he sank down comfortably into it. He glanced around the room at the antique secretary desk, the ancient-yet-pristine Elizabethan furniture, the tapestries and rugs from far-flung regions. No matter how often he visited, he never quite got over the grandeur of the place—tastefully exquisite as only someone like Narcissa could make it.

Lucius came strolling in, smiling and extending a hand. "Severus, how are you? I wasn't expecting you."

Severus shook his hand, and Lucius sat down opposite him. "Is that your code way for asking what in bloody hell I'm doing here unannounced?" Snape drawled.

Lucius laughed softly. "No. With you I'd come right out and ask." He took the goblet of wine Sisidy held at his elbow, and waited for her to serve his friend. He noted with amusement that Severus avoided, as he usually did, the alcoholic beverage in favour of a lemonade. Many would say he didn't need anything to make him more sour. "Sisidy didn't mention any urgency in your demeanor, so I naturally assumed this is a social call. So what does bring you here, aside from my jovial company and superb charm?"

"Don't forget your wicked good looks," Severus added, rolling his eyes.

Lucius laughed again. "Yes, we mustn't forget that."

"Charlotte," said Severus, and it made Lucius sit up straighter, interest in his eyes. "No, I haven't found her, but I've an idea I wanted to run past you. Have you ever read _The Quibbler_?"

"That rag magazine by Luna Lovegood's father?" inquired Lucius, taking a sip of wine. "I've seen it, though I can't say I've read it. Why?"

"I seem to recall a few years back he ran an article on werewolf lairs. Of course, I never took him seriously, but we are at a dead end as far as leads are concerned. What do we have to lose by questioning him to see if he has a notion where Greyback might be hiding?" Severus peered over his lemonade glass at the other, waiting for his reply. That elf certainly knew how to make tasty lemonade!

"Let me get this straight," Lucius said, setting his goblet down and leaning in a bit. "You want us—you and me—to go visit that madman on the assumption that he knows more about hiding places than, oh I don't know, aurors who are trained in finding people?"

"You really are a sarcastic git, Lucius," Severus returned. He drained his own glass before setting it on the table beside his chair. "Lest you forget, we did our share of finding people when we worked for the dark lord—not to mention afterward. Dolohov ring any bells?"

"And _I'm_ a sarcastic git?" Lucius replied, feigning offense.

"Fine, if you'd rather not be involved, I understand. Marcus is safe, and that's all you truly care about—"

"Don't even go there, Snape," Lucius warned, his affront becoming real. Hadn't he been the one to bring the children to England to keep them from being slaughtered by vampires? How dare this—this bombastic twat insult him by implying the rest meant nothing? "Don't put words in my mouth. I care as much about Charlotte as you do. I am merely questioning the wisdom of probing the mind of a man whose mind is less than probe-able. That didn't make sense. I meant—"

"I know what you meant," Severus said softly, letting him see he didn't want to argue. "And I agree with you. He's odd, to be polite. He may even be insane, I don't know. He writes the most ludicrous things, yet at times he has proven to be right. If he happens to be right about where werewolves tend to hide, can we afford to pass up the opportunity?"

Opportunity. The word struck Lucius square between the eyes, and he smirked. Perhaps his definition of it varied from the norm, but when he heard it, he heard, 'Something that will increase my wealth or standing.' And it would, would it not? Finding Charlotte would be the feather in his cap, if he wore a cap, which he did not generally do since it squashed his hair and made him look like a turtle head, but that was beside the point. The Ministry would have one more thing to thank him for—one more thing for Shacklebolt to declare publicly when he was well enough.

"Alright, Severus, I'll go with you. But it's late, already dark out. We'd not be able to search until tomorrow anyway, so why don't you stay and visit for a while? Or if Aline is expecting you, invite her and the children. Narcissa would love to have you all for supper."

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**March 17, 2001**

"Harry, how good to see you!" Molly ushered him into the twisted stack of planks called a home, patting his back warmly and prattling on, "I made some treacle tarts today, isn't that funny? Your favourite, and I had no idea you'd be coming."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, it sounds wonderful," Harry said, letting himself be led into the house.

"Ginny is off flying with Ron, which is why I didn't expect you," Molly added. She bid him sit at the kitchen table and shoved a plate of cakes at him. "Is everything alright? Have you heard anything about poor Charlotte?"

"No, I haven't heard a thing," Harry answered. He picked up a tart and nibbled the edge of it. Being Saturday, he was off auror training for the day, and he'd got an idea to come here. Honestly, he wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe because they were the family he'd never had, and in times of crisis, it helped to have family around. "Sirius is staying at Black Manor with Henry, and it gets lonely at home."

"You poor thing," she cooed, pushing the plate closer as if treacle tarts could solve all life's problems. "Arthur, Harry's here."

Arthur had walked into the room and was completely capable of detecting the young man himself. Nonetheless, he looked shocked and pleased and uttered a hearty welcome. "Harry, my boy, you spend entirely too much time away. They've got you busy at training, I suspect."

"Very," admitted Harry. He accepted the glass of milk Molly offered with a nod of thanks. "I wish my training could help me find Charlotte. Now I understand the frustration of the aurors when they're after criminals, and can't find them—not that I'm equating Charlotte to a criminal."

"No, of course not," Arthur agreed. He sat down beside the young man and reached for a tart. "You know, Xenophilius Lovegood and his friend—what's his name, dear? The strange one, Locus something."

"Peragro Locus," Molly supplied.

"Yes, Lovegood and Peragro Locus often collaborate on inventions."

Harry shot him a quizzical expression. Had he missed something? They'd been talking about Charlotte, and now they were talking about Doctor Peragro Locus, the weirdo from the Ministry lift? The one who'd 'invented' the radio only like a hundred years after its actual invention? "I met him once. What's he got to do with this?"

Arthur swallowed a bite of his food before answering. "Nothing. But since the Ministry can't seem to find Charlotte, and spells can't locate her, perhaps Lovegood and his friend have some type of invention that could help. It can't hurt to ask, right?"

Harry did a rapid search of his brain for any reason he could find to avoid taking Mr. Weasley's suggestion. Finding none, he gave a lopsided grin and shrugged one shoulder. "I guess it wouldn't hurt. I know Mr. Lovegood lives over in that direction, not so far from here. Where does Mr. Locus live?"

"On the other side of him. We don't socialize, really." Arthur leaned in and wrinkled his nose. "He's a little odd." He finished off his tart and stood up. "Eat up, Harry, and we'll be on our way!"


	85. Daddy Dearest

18

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 85 (Daddy Dearest)

**April 6, 1938**

"I'm sorry, Tom, but I'm not finding anything," Nott said, wearily closing the book and shoving it across the library table. "It looks like your dad wasn't on any of the Quidditch teams in the past fifty years."

Riddle looked up from the tome he was poring over himself. "Maybe he's older than that," he replied, refusing to give up. And if he were older, it would explain why he couldn't care for Tom—he was ancient and decrepit, maybe even dead by now. "Keep looking."

"I can't. I have a paper due tomorrow in Potions class, and Slughorn expects a lot." He glanced at the wall clock, then got up, stacked his own textbooks, and pushed in his chair. He picked up his books and looked back sympathetically at the firstie. It must be hard not knowing anything about your family. "Maybe Lewis can recheck, make sure I didn't miss something. It's not like he cares about his grades."

"Hey!" Mulciber retorted indignantly. He'd have rebutted the statement if it weren't so true. Instead, he pulled the book over to himself. "If his dad is in here, _I'll_ find him," he said, with a sneer at his friend Nott.

Tom didn't say anything. He was busy reading about wizards of note from past Hogwarts classes, and there was loads of information. His job was much more difficult than either of the other two, yet you didn't see him complaining, did you? And these two books comprised only a fraction of the volumes available that may shed some light on Tom's past.

When hours later the librarian approached him to tell him the library was closing, Tom's eyes were bloodshot and exhausted, his back stiff from sitting so long. After all this time, he'd only waded through less than half of one book, with no results. Maybe he ought to pace himself; it wasn't like the information was going anywhere, and he had another six weeks before going back to the orphanage for the summer.

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**March 17, 2001**

_April 6, 1938_

_ I spent most of the day in the library, when I wasn't in class. I'd hoped to find something to shed light on my father, for certainly he must have attended Hogwarts as well. There is so much to read through—class lists, notable pupils, awards, detention logs, teams—but I am determined to find him, no matter how long it takes…and it seems it will take a very long time. In the end, it will be worth it, for I will gather knowledge about my past, and possibly even uncover a way to find my father._

_ Nott and Mulciber helped me, though I can't really expect they'll do much more. Mulciber isn't one to concentrate for very long, and Nott wants to do well in his own classes. I don't think Mulciber really cares, since he doesn't seem to care all that much for his own dad, except to please him so he doesn't get smacked. Nott looks at me with pity, which I hate. He has a good relationship with his parents, and surely feels sorry for me for being an orphan, which technically I am not if my father is still alive._

_ I'm very tired, I must go to bed now._

"Therese, turn the light off!" one of her roommates said sleepily.

"Alright, I'm done studying anyway," she answered.

Therese sighed and closed the diary. While lost in the vision, she'd failed to recognize that it was getting late in her own time, too. It bothered her to know she felt sorry for Tom, knowing who he was, and what he'd become. When Nott felt bad for him, he had no idea what was to come…she knew.

She slid the diary into her foot locker and spelled it shut with a charm Professor Snape had taught her, one far more complicated than those of any first year here—or even any seventh year, if she were being honest. Then she went to her bed, where earlier she'd laid out her nightdress. She pulled it over her head and got into bed, drawing the covers up tightly round her.

As usual, she thought of Jonathan Avery before going to sleep, only this time for another reason. His dad and grandfather were both in Azkaban because of their blind devotion to the grown up, insane Tom Riddle. Jonathan no longer had a father, and he carried the shame of being a Death Eater's son, even though he had played no part in any of it. It wasn't fair. Somehow, she suddenly felt less sorry for Tom, and more sorry for those deluded by him, and for the families and lives ripped apart because of Tom. Sleep was slow in coming with such thoughts preying on her mind.

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**March 17, 2001**

"I don't know where it is," Lucius said simply. He twirled his cane, making Severus deploy evasive maneuvers to avoid a stiff blow to the jaw. The latter snatched the cane and whipped the tail end of it toward the floor. Lucius gave him the evil eye, but said nothing.

"You don't know where the Burrow is?" Severus repeated incredulously, shaking his hair back from his face. He had been sure Malfoy must have been there at some point, else how then was he able to make such accurate, disparaging remarks about it, particularly the ramshackle house? Whatever, he'd rather not argue about it. "Take my sleeve, I'll lead the way."

"Is this absolutely necessary? Can't we invite Mr. Lovegood here?" countered Malfoy. "I'll have the elves serve up brunch."

"I've no doubt he'd thoroughly enjoy visiting the site of his daughter's captivity during Voldemort's final year. Perhaps you can give him a tour of the dungeons while we snack on tarts," Snape sniped in return. "Get outside."

Lucius stopped short of a juvenile 'you-aren't-the-boss-of-me'. Last night he'd agreed to go on the assumption that finding Charlotte this way would once more elevate his position in society, but in the light of a new day it seemed to have been a poor decision. Xenophilius Lovegood? Seriously? What could that hack-job hope to offer? However, backing out simply was not good form. Manipulating Snape into telling him to stay behind—now _that_ was the way a Malfoy did business. Unfortunately, it wasn't working; Severus knew all his tricks, and didn't worry over what Malfoy wealth might be able to do to him if Lucius took the notion into his head. Their brother-like relationship was to blame for that. He gripped his cane under one arm and stormed out, slamming the door behind them.

"Make sure not to land too close to Weasley's house," he grumbled.

With Lucius in tow, Severus apparated on the far side of Xenophilius Lovegood's black, tower-like home, not even in view of the Burrow. He jutted his chin in that direction and cooed as if he were speaking to a small child, "Weasley's house is waaaay over there. You're perfectly safe."

"Oh, shut up," Lucius retorted, giving a withering look. "I'm only here for moral support, not your abuse." He then noticed the distance they'd need to cover to get to Lovegood's house. "Oh, goody, we're out in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. Splendid thing that mud is beneficial to Italian leather."

Scowling at the mud on his shoes and the wind whipping his long blond locks in circles, he took a leather cord from his pocket and tied back the hair; there was little to be done about the shoes now. He had to take solace in the hope that something advantageous—and by that he meant for himself and his family—would come of this. Charlotte's safety was paramount, of course, but it didn't hurt to have _two_ good things, right?

They walked in silence across the field, and rounded the turret to the front door—just as Harry and Arthur arrived from the opposite direction. All four drew to halt, taken aback. Arthur's mouth hung open in a little 'o'.

"Um…hi, Professor," said Harry, breaking the ice. Grudgingly he added, "Mr. Malfoy."

"Mr. Potter, Arthur," drawled Severus. "Isn't this a surprise?"

"Hello, Severus," responded Arthur, deliberately snubbing Lucius.

"Mr. Potter," Lucius replied, ignoring Arthur as well.

"Molly's been talking of having you over. You simply must come by soon when the whole family is there," Arthur said, adding as a purposeful dig, "Severus."

_An evening with the Weasley clan en masse: how perfectly abhorrent_, Snape thought, even as he said, "Have her owl Aline. Now that I'm married, I can't be accepting invitations willy-nilly."

"No invitation for moi? I'm heartbroken," Lucius said derisively. The expression he shot Severus plainly said, 'Willy-nilly? Who polyjuiced you and took your place?'

An awkward silence followed, broken this time by Lucius. "While _some people_ may find treading about in the muck and staring at one another to be positively delightful, I prefer intellectual pursuits. Severus and I have a matter to discuss with Mr. Lovegood, so…"

"We have business with him as well," Arthur answered.

"When we're finished, you may take all the time you like," said Lucius, ambling toward the door.

"We were here first," Harry retorted.

His gaze met Malfoy's, and suddenly he made a break for the door. Lucius whacked the cane down across the doorway, striking the frame on the other side and effectively blocking Potter's progress. Lucius then slithered in behind, holding the cane between them; he smirked so like Draco that Harry thought for a second he was having a Hogwarts flashback.

All at once the door opened wide and Xenophilius stood there looking bemused. "I thought I heard someone out here. I'd no idea it was four someones." The look he gave Malfoy made Lucius wish he'd had Snape go first. Then, noting Harry, he waved a hand at them. "Why don't you come in."

They filed in, with Snape leaning over to Lucius' ear to whisper through clenched teeth, "I can't take you anywhere, can I? Can't you just agree to disagree with Arthur on every aspect of life as we know it and let it go?"

Lucius turned to his friend, scorn etched on his visage. "Hardly. If I agreed with him on anything, then we'd _both_ be wrong." He brushed down his robes, flicking off imaginary particles of dust. "And for the record, I'm the one who taught you proper manners, so don't lecture me on propriety."

While they were undertaking their private conversation, Harry and Arthur had assailed Lovegood with questions. In the background, Peragro Locus stood over a small, translucent box on a table. Inside, gears were visible, and a smattering of fine wires, with a core of pulsing red. He looked up at the intruders as if they were…well, intruders. When Harry began circling the room to get a better vantage point, he shouted out a warning.

"Don't go over there!" Locus yelped, indicating the area on the far side of the room. It stilled the cacophony of everyone speaking together.

Harry stopped cold, then backed up slowly. "Why not?"

"It may not be safe. We're working on my interdimensional travel device, and—well, things go away, but they have yet to come back." He shrugged and bent his head over his work once more.

Intrigued and slightly repulsed by the strange man wearing his long dark hair in two high pigtails, Severus edged closer to the table for a look. Maybe technical inventions weren't as boring as he'd been led to believe all these years. "Mr. Lovegood, Lucius Malfoy and I have come to ask you about an article you wrote some years ago, concerning werewolf lairs."

"But our question will only take a minute, and theirs could take a lot of time," said Harry hurriedly. He almost had to duck to avoid the death glare coming from Snape. "We wondered if you or Mr. Locus has an invention to find people—you know, people the locator spells can't."

Lovegood returned to his spot at the lab table, shaking his head. "I'm afraid it's not that easy, Harry Potter. I—"

"I've got a photo, if that will help," Harry added. He whipped his wallet out from his back pocket, rifled through, and produced a photo of Charlotte with her brother in front of the Black fireplace. He shoved it under the old man's nose. "Her name is Charlotte."

Xenophilius glanced down at it, then his expression became jubilant. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "She's in Somerset, on the peat moors."

"That was a remarkably quick deduction," observed Snape. "What spell did you use?"

Lovegood blinked at him. "I didn't use a spell. I saw her."

"I wasn't aware that you are a seer," drawled Lucius.

"No, we _saw_ her! A few days ago—and talked to her briefly. Didn't we, Peragro?" He took the photo and showed it to his friend, who nodded in agreement. "I can take you there if you like."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The words came out of the blue, shattering the silence like a gunshot. "I haven't seen Charlotte in a while, Fenrir. Where did you leave her?"

Greyback stopped pacing the tiny cabin long enough to turn to Pa. "I brought her home. She's probably sulking again because I had to yell at her for her pitiful, sloppy stalking performance." He resumed his pacing, growling in the back of his throat every so often. "You yelled at me all the time till I got it right. She's so damnable sensitive."

"Not exactly the word I'd use for her," Pa answered. He got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. "More like stubborn and willful. You got to take that sort in hand and force 'em to learn." He sat back down, sighed, and took a long slurp of the hot liquid. "It might help if you stopped playin' the game and told her the truth."

Greyback snorted, barely even looking at the other werewolf. "Don't know what you're on about."

Pa slammed a fist on the table, and Greyback halted in place, turning warily toward the elder. The older man pointed a yellow-nailed finger at him. "Don't try your bullshit on me, Fenrir. Feedin' the kids, takin' care of 'em, teachin' 'em—it leaves an impact."

"So does watching your pack get slaughtered by vampires," sneered Fenrir, though notably he stayed out of reach of Pa. "She blames me for that, and anything I say in my defense means nothing to her." Suddenly he kicked a chair across the room, where it struck the opposite wall. "Does she think I _wanted_ it to happen? She'd never believe I cared for all my pack. Not after some of the things I did…"

Pa looked disdainfully in his direction and scoffed, "Don't go gettin' all weak on me. Those boys defied you, they had it coming. It was force 'em to respect you as the leader or chase 'em away to fend for themselves, likely to die."

"Which they ended up doing anyway," Greyback supplied grimly, as if it were necessary.

"You were in prison, it wasn't your choice. Charlotte is old enough to understand that—and that you care for her."

Fenrir snorted even louder than the first time.

Pa pierced Fenrir with a steady, hard gaze. His gravelly voice continued unperturbed, practically daring Greyback to gainsay him. "You hold a place in my heart; why is it so far-fetched that you'd feel the same about the children you created?"

Greyback held his gaze for as long as he could, then dropped his eyes and turned to the window to look out over the moors. He wasn't used to talking about stupid things like 'feelings', and relationships. He had other things he could waste time on, but Pa expected an answer, and if he didn't get one he'd badger the younger werewolf—and possibly whack him one—until he got it. He didn't want to fight his father figure, nor was he in the mood to be harangued.

"It took me years to understand what your guidance meant," he finally said, letting out a defeated breath. "I don't have that kind of time with Charlotte. People are looking for her. Speaking of which, I should bring her in."

He hightailed it out before Pa could draw him into some more silly reminiscing. Once outside, he wandered round the cabin, to the outhouse, and among the patches of trees nearby. By this time he'd begun to become agitated; Charlotte knew not to wander off without telling him. Where was she? He stalked around the property once more, then paused to study the tracks in the muddy earth. The tracks were overlaid many times, but he did notice one set going off in the direction of the caves he'd shown her when they arrived here. Scratch that—two sets, although one was definitely older than the other, both made by Charlotte's shoes. She was returning to someplace she'd been before.

He loped along the ground, following the path, sniffing the air. When he got his hands on her, he'd give her what for! Didn't he have enough to think about already without her adding to his burden? Once Henry came to live with them, maybe she'd chill and start behaving better. He could always hope.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Straining her eyes, Charlotte poked her head down the entrance to the cave where days ago she'd seen the men. As far as humans went, she had excellent vision; being a werewolf made it easier to see in the dark as well. Nevertheless, she saw nothing but slimy walls. "Hello!" she called. The voice echoed back to her. "Are you in there?" Nothing.

Several cracking sounds behind her made her lift up her head and turn, and she gasped out loud. There was the one called Lovegood—and Mr. Malfoy! And Professor Snape, and Harry…and some bloke with reddish hair that she didn't know. Simultaneously puzzled and excited and frightened, she stood up hurriedly and backed away. A quick glance around assured her Greyback wasn't among them.

"There! What did I tell you!" exclaimed Xenophilius Lovegood, beaming. In truth, he was rather surprised the girl was still here. He'd only expected to show them where he'd seen her.

"Charlotte, are you alright? Where is Greyback? Did he hurt you?"

They were all talking at once, crowding about, hemming her in, demanding answers. She thrashed her arms to ward them off and belted out a passionate, "Stop it! What are you doing here? All of you?"

"We've come to rescue you," Harry said, nodding along with himself, and smiling.

Charlotte took another wild look around. "What about Greyback? He'll know I'm gone, he'll—"

"He'll what?" asked Snape, drawing his wand. "We will not allow him to harm you."

Lucius, too, had drawn his wand and was peering round the perimeter. "Where might we find Greyback, Charlotte? I've a score to settle with him before the aurors take over."

She pointed loosely in the direction of the cabin, then added, "Just take me away. It doesn't matter, he didn't hurt me, and I want to see Henry." Clearly distressed, she bounced from one foot to another. "Please, I don't want him finding you here, I don't want anyone injured because of me!"

"Potter, you and Arthur take Charlotte to St. Mungo's to be checked out," Severus said, his eyes busy searching the horizon. "From there, notify your dog—godfather to collect her and take her to Black Manor."

"Yeah, okay," Harry agreed. Snape couldn't help but muse that if Potter had been so compliant in school, they'd have had much less animosity between them.

"Wait!" Charlotte said, not liking all this attention focused on her, nor the disregard for her own wishes, which no one had bothered to ask. "Mr. Malfoy, can I talk to you for a minute? In private."

Lucius left off the plot against Greyback he'd been building in his mind and turned to her. This didn't bode well. He saw on the faces of the others that they were thinking the same thing. What had that filthy werewolf done to her? He took her by the elbow and led her a short distance away, with all the other men torn between watching them and watching for Greyback to make an appearance.

"What is it, Charlotte?" he asked.

"I've had a lot of time to think, and…well, here it is. I don't want to be a werewolf anymore. I understand if you say no, but I need to ask you a favour."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 20, 2001**

"Ophelia?" Marshal pounded on the door harder. He heard something in there, something he was all too familiar with, and he didn't like it coming from a witch he cared for. "Ophelia!"

When she didn't reply or answer the door, he stood back, lifted his booted foot, and kicked with all his strength. The thick wooden door shot inward, struck the wall with a resounding thwack, and bounced back to hang limply on one hinge, the frame on the doorknob side torn completely from the wall. On second thought, perhaps he ought to have simply tried an unlocking spell first. At any rate, he ran through the living room directly toward the sound of sobbing.

Ophelia had sat up on her bed at the sound of the door being demolished, her astonished countenance turned toward him when he entered. Her face was red from crying, her eyes puffy and wet, streaks of tears still coursing down. "Wallace, what are you doing?"

"Are you alright?" He did a circle, searching, his wand at ready. "Is Portia alright?"

"Yes," said the witch slowly, wiping her tears with a kerchief. Then she burst out, "He was here!"

He. Him. The one before. Marshal's jaw tightened. Ophelia's ex-husband had been a sore spot between them, primarily because she refused to talk about it even when it obviously bothered her. Or more aptly, when the scummy ponce took it in his head to bother her, which he'd done with surprising regularity in the past two weeks. And then she'd pretended it was nothing, when any fool could see she was upset and afraid. Not that Marshal liked comparing himself to a fool, but truth was truth.

Marshal put his wand away and came to sit beside her, to let her cling to him as he placed a protective arm round her. "It's okay, I'm here," he said by way of meaningless tripe. In the old days, he'd have tracked down the bastard the first time he made an appearance, and felt fully justified in murdering him on general principles. Damn Jorab and his stupid 'morality' rubbing off on him!

"I don't know what to do, Wallace," said Ophelia in a trembling voice. Another great sob racked her frame. "He said he's going to sue for custody of Portia unless I go back to him."

Portia, Ophelia's sweet little five-year-old girl. As a rule, Marshal preferred to date women without children, but Ophelia had worked her enchantments on him the first time he laid eyes on her. By the time she'd introduced him to Portia, he'd been hopelessly smitten and in no position to dump her for having a child. And he had to admit he kind of liked the kid.

"He can't win. You're not an unfit mother, you have gainful employment, your living conditions are top quality."

"They're top quality because of the alimony he pays me every month. He's got a lot of money, Wallace. He can afford the best representation. He can hire people to lie for him, and he'd do it if he had to." She began weeping in earnest again, hiding face on his chest as he patted her back in sympathy.

"Maybe he needs to have a man to man talk with me," Marshal said, a hard edge appearing in his tone. "I'm sure I can convince him of the error of his ways."

"No, you'd beat him up and be thrown into jail," she responded lifelessly. "There's nothing we can do."

"Are you actually considering it, then?" asked Marshal. "Going back to him?"

"I don't know. I don't know." Her voice rose at the end, culminating in a wail. She shook her head, but he felt in the stiffness of her shoulders that it was so. She'd already made a decision.

"What about us?" he demanded. "Don't I mean a damn to you?"

"Yes! You know you do! If it wasn't for you, this decision wouldn't be so difficult."

"Are you saying you still have feelings for that arsewipe?" he exclaimed.

"No. Where did you get that?" she asked, pulling away to stare into his face.

"Then what is so difficult about it? You don't go back and marry some f-khead because he threatens you!" Marshal swept her aside and stood up, letting her slip forward face-first onto the bed before righting herself. Brows dipped in an angry frown, he stomped across the room. "Maybe you ought to be pressing charges on him for harassment, for threatening you and your daughter—"

"I can't, Wallace! He said if I don't leave you, he'd come after you!" Tears had begun leaking from her eyes again. "I can't let him destroy you."

Marshal barked out a laugh that rocked the room. "Ophelia, the day I'm afraid of a pantywaist little prick is the day I _avada kedavra_ myself in the head for being a spineless shit!"

"He has ways. He'll get you sacked, he'll have you thrown out of your flat, he'll find whatever he can to ruin your reputation." She shook her head again, helplessly, hopelessly.

"No, he won't," the wizard assured her, crossing the room once more to kneel in front of her on the floor. "He's trying to scare you, that's all. If I lose my job, I'll get another. I highly doubt he'll find anything to damage my pristine reputation." He almost laughed out loud again. Good luck on finding anything related to Wallace Marshal, aside from the forged documents proving his birth and such! "Come on, now. Are you a witch or a coward?"

Lips twitching, torn between smiling and screaming, she said, "Can't I be both?"

"Afraid not. You've got to show your daughter how a strong woman faces her adversaries." He got up and pulled her to her feet in front of him, their bodies so close the warmth of her skin saturated his shirt. "Want me to teach you some dueling? Or hand to hand combat? You could learn to kick his arse."

"I'd love that. But first I need this." Grabbing the lapels of his shirt, she yanked him in and planted a long, sensuous kiss on his lips.

"Yeah," he said softly, smiling. "We could do that first."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Is that why you came? To tell me you—without the backing of the Board of Governors or even the Deputy Headmistress—have decided Timothy is not the 'right material' for your bloody school?" Dolph said a bit more stridently than necessary, sarcasm and venom dripping from his words. His hand itched to reach for his wand; if Snape wanted to bring it to the next level, he'd find that Dolph wasn't a pushover, particularly when defending his own.

There was an answer so low it was inaudible to the boy lying in his bed, eyes wide open, listening to the argument going on below. Tim dared not sneak down the stairs to eavesdrop; Dad had warned him of the ramifications of that action, and he had no desire to be whipped by the one man he'd come to revere so much.

"You have some nerve, you pretentious arsehole!" Dolph shouted, loud enough to ring through to the upstairs. Tim pictured a sneer accompanying the remark.

"You expect me to put my job on the line by bringing a werewolf into the school? I can't f-king believe you!" Snape bellowed back, his restraint broken. "How would your parents have reacted to that? How do you think most of the parents now would react? They'd demand he be removed, or they'd pull their own children out. And forgetting the adults for a moment, children can be very cruel, as I know firsthand!"

"And that girl turning into Voldemort—that's not a danger to the students?" Dolph barked back. "You've kept her there the entire time!"

"Because we know the cure for her and she has responded well to it," Severus replied hotly. "There is no cure for Timothy."

Apparently Goodman tried to interject something, but Snape yelled over him, "They don't understand Wolfsbane, they wouldn't trust it! Timothy could be the most gentle lad in the world, and they wouldn't care. I'm not Dumbledore, I don't have the world eating out of my manipulative hand!"

"Ironic, isn't it, Snape, that you've been the victim of discrimination most of your life for being a halfbreed, and here you're willing to do the same to my son."

"Are you forgetting his photo has been plastered over every wizarding establishment in England and Scotland? Do you seriously think he won't be recognized?" asked Snape, his voice lowering so Tim had to strain his wolf-sensitive ears to make it out. "What would happen then?"

There was a short pause before his father responded. "So what am I supposed to do?" demanded Dolph. Tim could almost see him standing there, steely-eyed, glaring at the Potions master.

"There are schools in other countries—Durmstrang, Salem, Beauxbatons—and plenty of others. No one would know him, and only the teachers would need to be apprised of the situation," Severus answered, making Tim actually scurry out of bed and put his ear to the floor to make sure he heard it accurately. "If necessary, I would continue to make the Wolfsbane for him. I will bear witness on his behalf if there's a problem in enrolling him elsewhere."

Tim got up and sat heavily on his bed, feeling numb, not even trying to listen to the rest of the conversation. This was it, then. Even with Snape refusing him entrance to Hogwarts, he'd still be shipped off to another school even further away—not that it made a difference, really. If Dad wanted him gone that badly, he'd be gone, and it wouldn't matter where.

He flopped onto his side, drawing his knees to his chest and staring at the wall. Tears formed in his eyes and slid over the bridge of his nose to drip silently onto the sheet. It had been too good to be true, he should have known that. Life had taught him the hard way not to get emotionally invested, because every time he did, people left or died or turned on him. He'd hoped it might last a bit longer before his illusions were shattered, but it was his own fault for believing, right?

He pulled the covers over himself, lying awake well into the night and crying softly. When he was sure his father was asleep—and he always knew by the snoring coming from below—he quietly climbed out of bed, stripped off his pajamas, and dressed in a suit of robes. If he'd had any muggle clothing, he'd have chosen it instead. He automatically went for the cloak Dad had bought for him, then passed it by and selected the coat Mr. Malfoy had given him when he'd first brought him back from Spain with the other werewolf children. He picked up his wand from the nightstand and pressed it to his cheek, then gently lay it down again. It was expensive; Dad could return it where they purchased it. Sighing, he picked up his shoes and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs.

In the kitchen, in a cookie jar, was where the muggle money was kept. Because he knew it was rarely used and probably wouldn't be missed, Tim lifted the lid of the jar and scooped out the entire contents. It wasn't a lot, but it was all he had until he could steal some more. He may not even need more if things went as planned. He sat on the floor to pull on his shoes, and was halfway to the door when he thought he really should leave a note so Dad—Mr. Goodman—no, Dad wouldn't wonder what happened and come looking for him out of a sense of duty.

Going to the dining room table where his books set in a pile, he took a sheet of parchment, uncapped the ink and dipped the quill, and wrote with shaking hand:

_dear dad_

Remembering that Mr. Ulysses said he was supposed to use a capital letter for his father, he inserted a capital D over the small d.

_dear Dad_

_thanks for evrything_

_im sory im trubl for you._

_I don't want you to be unhapy so_

_its better this way. goodby _

_Timothy_

Tears welled in his eyes again, and he wiped them away with his sleeves. He had no choice, did he? This was far better than knowing he was a burden to be foisted off at the first opportunity. He sucked in a shaky breath, took the note, put it on the coffee table in plain view, and walked out the door, careful to close it ever so quietly behind him.

Outside, on the street, he looked back longingly one final time at the house, then steeled himself and turned away. He turned his face up at the sky to study the constellations, to tell him which way he ought to go, and began his journey. He'd gone no more than a short distance south when a taxicab came driving down the street. He raised his hand to hail it, but the driver went on by without so much as a glance in his direction.

A second later, an enormous three-tiered bus came roaring up and squealed to a halt beside him, shuddering like it was about to fall apart. Tim stopped and gaped, not knowing what to think, and then the doors opened and a skinny young man with a perpetually pimpled face sauntered down the steps. His purple uniform glowed slightly under the street lamp.

"WelcometotheKnightBus, ," the conductor rattled off in a bored tone, so fast Timothy didn't understand a word of it—and the cockney accent didn't help. "Juststickoutyourwand'and, steponboard, . MynameisStanShunpike, andI'llbeyourconductorthisevening."

Tim merely stared in fascination, his mouth hanging open a touch.

"'Ere now, let's get a move on," Stan Shunpike said, motioning impatiently at the lad. "Wot? No luggage?"

"Uh…no," Tim stammered back. "What is this?"

Stan heaved a tired sigh. Didn't brats listen to anything nowadays? "This 'ere's the Knight Bus, come to take you wherever you wants to go. Didn't I jus' tell you that?"

"Anywhere I want?" asked Tim, becoming animated.

"Thas wot I said, init?"

"Can you take me to Stonehenge?" Tim held his breath, waiting for the reply.

"Stone'enge!" Stan repeated, startled and amused at once. "Can't say we get many requests for that…none, actually. Climb on up."

He moved aside and Tim took the steps slowly, warily. He turned back to admit meekly, "I only have muggle money. Is that okay?"

The bus driver, seeing the boy was well dressed and evidently not a vagrant, nodded and winked at him; Stan noticed it and added self-importantly, "Sure it is. Come on, don' keep us all waitin'. Woss your name again?"

"Tim," he said before he could stop himself. It had just slipped out. Tim's mind whirled rapidly. Should he have given his real name? It wasn't like anyone would be looking for him…except maybe the Ministry to kill him for being a werewolf. Something bland and normal was best. "Tim Salem."

"Well, Tim Salem, back 'ere we got beds, an' drinks, an' a toofbrush if you wants it…"


	86. From One Werewolf to Another

24

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 86 (From One Werewolf to Another)

(A/N: Please make sure you read the last chapter before beginning this one, as it will not make much sense otherwise. :D)

_Late February, 1977_

_Severus kept his wand close to the ground, its tip glowing against the plants, reflecting off the snow and ice. He shivered under his robes, which were the best he could afford, yet poor quality nonetheless, and he found it necessary to breathe on his fingers repeatedly to warm them._

_ He didn't like the idea of being in the Forbidden Forest, at night no less, but as that's when the full moon tends to come out, he had no choice. The plant he was looking for had to be picked tonight or wait another moon cycle. He'd made a promise to Lucius to attempt a fertility potion for Narcissa, the least he could do was fulfill it to the best of his ability._

_ At last he found what he'd been searching for. One hand clamped around the frozen, dead leaves while he wiggled the roots free with the aid of a spell. He stuffed the whole thing into a small sack he'd brought along and tucked it into his robes, then hurried to the edge of the forest. He left the sense of oppression behind him along with all the terrors lurking in those woods. _

_ As he exited, he noticed someone coming from the other direction; he wasn't supposed to be in the Forbidden Forest, and didn't need some loudmouthed pupil tattling on him. He scurried to the nearest tree and hid behind it, peeking round far enough to see that it was Madam Pomfrey and…well, well, well, Remus bloody Lupin! On the full moon. He'd had his suspicions up to now, and this only served to confirm that something was amiss. _

_They were headed to the Whomping Willow. Severus watched as they approached the evil tree, and then suddenly Lupin was gone. How had that happened? Where had he gone? Madam Pomfrey turned around and walked back to the castle. The second she was far enough away, he sneaked up to the tree to investigate._

"_You!" Sirius yelped. _

_ Severus spun around, wand at ready. "Why are you following me?"_

_ "I'm not," the other retorted. "I saw you coming out of the forest. James and I were—I saw you." _

_ Noting the broom in his hand, Severus admitted to himself it could be possible the obnoxious twit was telling the truth, which might not be a good thing. He wasn't permitted in the forest… but then again, Sirius wasn't supposed to be flying at night, either._

_ "You can put your wand down," said Sirius, not at all liking the way it aimed directed at his head. "I'm not planning to duel."_

_ "As if you could win," Severus drawled with a sneer. The wand didn't move. "Where did Lupin go?"_

_ "You were sneaking about watching, you should know. He went in there." Sirius indicated the Whomping Willow._

_ "Why?"_

_ With a little shrug and a fiendishly smug smirk, Sirius replied, "I guess you'll have to go in and find out. All you have to do is push that knot on the trunk with a long stick and the tree will stop moving."_

_ "Why should I trust you?"_

_ "I've been there. It leads to the Shrieking Shack."_

_ Intrigued, but keeping his face impassive, Severus raced through the facts. Lupin was in there; quite possibly this is where he disappeared every month when the Marauders showed up strutting around the castle without him. It was a full moon… Madam Pomfrey led Lupin here, which meant it wasn't a furtive place to take a girl…didn't he always go missing on a full moon? If, as he suspected, Lupin was a werewolf, he could tell everyone and the boy would be drummed out of school. Then he'd only have three arseholes to get rid of so he could have some semblance of a normal life. This opportunity was too good to pass up, but still, this was Sirius._

_ "If I go in, you'll tell on me or do something to keep me from getting back."_

_ "I swear, I won't do anything. I'll even make an Unbreakable Vow if you want." He paused, receiving no answer. Unable to resist, he added, "Are you afraid?"_

_ "No!"_

_ Sirius gave a derisive chortle. "It's alright, we don't call you Snivellus for nothing." Ignoring the wand pointed at him, he turned and walked off, smiling to himself. Snape was too nosy to let it go, he'd have to investigate. It was probably better if Sirius was nowhere near._

_ Severus resisted the urge to hex the pompous bastard as he swaggered off. How he despised Sirius Black, almost as much as he hated James Potter! Well, possibly every bit as much… no, he definitely hated Potter more. He waited a few minutes to be sure Black was really gone as his ears strained for sounds of the loathsome pack of jackals lurking about. Using his wand, he picked up a chunk of ice and threw it at the knot on the tree. Instantly it stopped moving, which surprised him. True words had actually spilled from the Black scoundrel's mouth! Looking around again and seeing no one, Severus stooped down to enter a large hole near the ground._

_ He'd only gone down the cave-like hallway and rounded a corner, then paused at the end when he heard shoes smacking on the wet floor behind him. "Snape!" James Potter shouted. "Snape, get out!"_

_ James slammed against the wall as he turned the corner and almost ran into Severus, who'd halted a short distance from the shack's entrance. He appeared mesmerized by a lean, hairy creature stalking about. Not thinking, James grabbed his arm and started pulling him down the corridor._

_ "We have to get out NOW," he hissed with terrified glances at the werewolf. "He'll see us!"_

_ The spell broken, Severus turned and fled alongside Potter. The sound of their retreat seemed to stir the animal, who howled long and loud, making them run all the faster. James shimmied out of the hole, grasped ahold of Snape's robe, and physically dragged him out. The two lay panting on the ground for a time, then James spoke._

_ "What the hell did you go in there for? How stupid!"_

_ Severus sat up, his perennially white face a bit more pallid. "Don't try to pretend you didn't have anything to do with it! Black never does anything without you—you were both trying to get me killed!"_

_ "Really? Then why did I save you?"_

_ "Technically, you didn't," Severus clipped. "I would've left—"_

_ "Or got eaten! You were just standing there like an idiot!"_

_ "You only came because you chickened out on your malicious plan!" spat Severus. "You were afraid they'd find out you were behind it! Then you, Black, and Lupin would all be sent to Azkaban where you belong!"_

_ "Boys, your shouting is enough to wake the dead," Headmaster Dumbledore commented as he drew closer and stopped, his sharp eyes studying each one carefully. "In fact, all this activity in the castle halls and noise out here did wake a couple of our ghosts, and they notified me of students out and about at this hour. Pray tell, what are you doing out here?"_

_ Neither of the young men cared to answer that particular question, so they ducked their heads and mumbled incoherently._

_ "It's been, let's see, perhaps a month since your detention finished last time," Dumbledore went on, ignoring them. "Apparently it wasn't very successful in bringing about a change of behavior."_

_ "Remus Lupin is a werewolf!" Severus declared. He got to his feet, still a bit trembly from the excitement. "He's in the Shrieking Shack."_

_ "Yes, Severus, I know," Dumbledore said, to the boy's utter dismay. "Come to my office, where Mr. Black should be waiting for us."_

_ James managed a feeble, "Why would he be?"_

_ "Because, Mr. Potter, rarely do the two of you part ways. If you're up to some sort of mischief, I can only conclude your bosom buddy is also involved." He shooed them off ahead of him. _

_ Sure enough, a very sober Sirius was pacing Dumbledore's office when they arrived. He looked relieved to see James, which could only mean he'd known James was in danger. Dumbledore honestly couldn't read the expression on his face at catching sight of Severus. It seemed at once hostile and surprised, even somewhat confused._

_ "Sit down, boys. Let's start with what you were doing out tonight."_

_ Nobody volunteered to begin._

_ Dumbledore prodded Sirius. "Go on."_

_ "I, uh… I was flying." Sensing the chance to point the finger at Severus, he hurriedly added, "And I saw Sniv—Snape coming out of the forest."_

_ "And?"_

_ "And I saw him creeping round the Whomping Willow."_

_ "Is that all?" inquired the Headmaster, completely unsatisfied with his account._

_ "I went back to my room and told James I saw Snape." Sirius kept his eyes pasted to the floor, dreading the thought of Dumbledore finding out the whole truth. Everything he'd said was true, even if he left out a lot. An awful lot._

_ Miraculously, Dumbledore turned to Snape. "Severus, why were you in the Forbidden Forest?"_

_ "I needed to collect a nightshade root," said the boy levelly. So saying, he removed the sack from his robes and handed it to Dumbledore. "On the full moon."_

_ "Nightshade? Isn't that deadly?" asked James._

_ "He probably intended to kill us," muttered Sirius._

_ "You're a fine one to talk," snapped Severus with a sarcastic sneer. "I wouldn't expect morons like you to realize there are a wide variety of nightshade plants, most of which are perfectly harmless. If I wanted to poison you, I'd be a bit more surreptitious." The way he narrowed his eyes did nothing to alleviate the fear that he might, indeed, try to poison them in the future._

_ "Severus, why did you go into the Whomping Willow?" Dumbledore asked._

_ Because I was stupid enough to trust a single word from Black's malevolent lips. Because I wanted to get Lupin out of Hogwarts. Because I hate them, I hate those damned Marauders, I wish they'd all die a horrifically painful death, why can't they get expelled and away from me! Why must you always be so frigging prying!_

_ "I'm waiting, Severus."_

_ "I saw Lupin go in, Professor. I was curious."_

_ "How did you know the method of calming the Whomping Willow?" the aged wizard continued._

_ Severus shot a hateful glance at Sirius, a move noticed by Dumbledore. Now all the pieces were fitting together, and he didn't like at all how the puzzle was shaping up._

_ "Sirius, I'm appalled that you would permit Severus to enter the Shrieking Shack, knowing your friend was at the other end!" If Dumbledore had been the violent type, he would have cuffed the boy across the head. "And don't deny it! James, what was your part in all of this?"_

_ Realizing it was futile to try to hide anything, James confessed, "When Sirius told me about Snape, I went running to stop him. I don't like him, but I didn't want him mauled or… anything. I pulled him out of there."_

_ "I was perfectly capable of pulling myself out," Severus replied coldly._

_ Dumbledore drew in a deep breath, then addressed Snape. "Severus, I want your promise that you will tell no one that Remus is a werewolf."_

_ "Professor—" he began to protest._

_ "Promise. Me."_

_ Severus looked up at him from where he sat. Dumbledore was one of the few people in the world who'd ever been truly kind to him. If it meant this much to the old wizard, shouldn't he agree? "I promise," he whispered._

_ "Good, thank you." He motioned at Potter and Snape. "Both of you return to your Houses immediately." The boys got up to go. "And, Severus? If you feel the need to enter the Forbidden Forest again, I suggest you notify me and we'll arrange for an escort." He handed him the bag containing the nightshade._

_ "Thank you, Professor, I will."_

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_July, 1997_

_ Today has been an interesting day, to say the least. Snape brought me very reliable news of Potter: he is to be moved Saturday next to the home of an Order member. Or so he thinks! I've got something to say about that. I long for the moment that I crush that nuisance once and for all, and the time is finally at hand._

_ Lucius was less than enthusiastic about giving up his wand for my use. He shan't require one here in his home, and after his last fiasco I don't see the point of letting him out. And the fool thought I meant to give him my own wand! That makes me laugh even now._

_ And Bellatrix! My lieutenant, my favourite…she has disappointed me greatly. I could not resist taunting her with the news of her sister's halfbreed daughter—marrying a werewolf, of all things! As if a mudblood weren't bad enough. Does that witch have no boundaries? Disgusting. _

_ It brings to mind an old memory—not my own, of course. Snape's. I took it years ago, and it is how I learned that the Order member Remus Lupin is a werewolf. He nearly killed Snape in that hideous old shack on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. One day I asked Snape why he hadn't directly told me about Lupin; he claimed he thought it irrelevant. I suppose in the scheme of things, it is._

_ The memory gives me pleasure, though I can't say exactly why. Yes, the fear coming from Snape is intoxicating, but it's more than that. I've played it in my mind many times, and always I ponder—there, that's it! Dumbledore. That duplicitous old bastard. He has the audacity to denounce me, to condemn me and my cohorts as deplorable when he, the Headmaster in charge of the safety of his pupils, let Sirius Black go scot free after attempted murder! If that doesn't reek of hypocrisy, I don't know what does. How many other crimes might he be guilty of behind the curtain of his self-righteousness? It's no wonder Snape has such issues of trust and burning hatred that I channel toward my own ends. I do believe he felt a great sense of satisfaction when he murdered Dumbledore; I only regret it was not I who wielded the wand._

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 20, 2001**

"Albus." Severus lifted his head from the diary and looked at the portrait across the room. It had been most disconcerting to see his own memory played out before his eyes as one of Tom's visions. It made the whole thing feel somehow more macabre, more…dirty.

"Albus, I've asked you in the past when you were alive, and you never gave me a satisfactory answer. Sirius Black tried to murder me via Lupin that night in the Shrieking Shack. Why did you make me promise not to tell? And why didn't you punish him?" Left unsaid was the accusation he'd leveled more than once, '_You cared more for him than for me, even though he tried to kill me. Why was my life less important than anyone else?'_

Dumbledore glanced up from the new bowl of candies he'd appropriated from a portrait in a dark corridor of the castle. His fingers caressed a red gumball. "Severus, I've told you time and again that I regret many things I did—and failed to do. Sirius should have been expelled, I admit it. The only reason I did not was because his parents would have demanded to know why, and I'd have been forced to tell them about Remus' condition. It would have been made public, and Remus—the innocent party in all this—would have been compelled to leave school."

"And the lack of punishment at all? Was it because he was one of your preferred Gryffindors, perhaps?"

"I did not trust myself to be near him, if you must know," Albus admitted softly. "I have always prided myself on my control, but that night I was dangerously close to losing it. I am not a proponent of corporal punishment, as you know." He sighed; the rattle of candies in the dish broke the silence. "I ought to have given him detention for the rest of the year, and I regret that I did not. Why are you bringing this up now?"

Severus lifted the diary slightly off the top of the desk. Giving a halfhearted sneer, he said, "Voldemort saw that memory. As you're aware, he raped our minds at will, and I couldn't shield everything from him, though I had no idea he'd taken it to heart." A light snort escaped him. "He thought it odd as well that you, the symbol of all that is good, had let Black off so easily." _Even a raging psychopath had more sense of justice than you, Albus_. _In this case, anyway._

He closed the diary, put it in the drawer, and locked it securely. It wasn't worth the battle to go over this with Albus one more time. What was done was done, and he got the impression that the old man truly was sorry for many of the decisions he'd made. Did it really matter now? Dumbledore was dead, it wasn't as if he could make up for any of the things he'd said or done that had made Snape feel like a worthless piece of shit in the past. He didn't feel that way anymore…that was what mattered now.

"Well, goodnight, Albus. I've got to go." He walked toward the spiral staircase outside his office.

"Goodnight, Severus." Pause. "I did what I thought was right at the time. I'm sorry I failed you."

Severus hesitated in the doorway, not turning back. "I know." He closed the door and tromped down the stairs.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 21, 2001**

Dolph woke up and stretched his arms out to the side and over his head, stretched his legs and feet and toes. Ah, much better. He relaxed in bed for a few more minutes before rolling over the side and slipping on his robe, which he tied loosely over his emerald green pajama bottoms, leaving his chest and stomach still partially exposed. Scratching the hair on his belly, he ambled into the loo to do his business, then wandered into the kitchen, where Ophelia was already at work on breakfast.

"Good morning, Ophelia."

"Good morning, Mr. Goodman," she fairly sang. Her humming didn't escape him.

"What are you so happy about? Shagged Marshal last night?" he grinned, and she blushed but said nothing to contradict him. He looked around the room. "Timothy's not up yet?"

"He hasn't been down," she answered as she flipped some more pancakes onto the stack.

"I'll go get him."

So saying, Dolph tramped up the stairs, down the short hallway, and into Rabby's old room. The bed was unmade, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Just to be sure he crossed the room and peered over the side of the bed to make sure the kid hadn't taken to sleeping on the floor again. Not there. He backtracked to the upstairs bathroom, only to find it empty, the door open. Brow furrowed, he came back down the hall and looked in the guest room, which was also unoccupied. By now he'd become apprehensive. Had Greyback somehow gotten through his wards and into the house, stolen the boy away?

"Timothy!" he bellowed. The voice echoed through the house. He bolted down the stairs to meet Ophelia, who was looking up anxiously at him.

"What's wrong? Isn't he there?"

"No, he's not." Dolph darted past her to the back door; it was locked. Nonetheless, he unlocked it and stuck his head outside. "Timothy!"

"Mr. Goodman?" Ophelia stood like a statue next to the coffee table, one finger pointing down at a slip of parchment.

Dolph traversed the room in four strides, picked up the note Tim had left the night before, and read it over twice before comprehension sank in. As if the bones had dropped out of his legs, he sank down on the sofa with a muffled crash, the note clutched in his fist. "My God, he's run away. Why would he do that?" He looked up at the witch. "Where would he go?"

"I don't know, sir," she answered quietly. "We should call the aurors—"

"No!" he said, too sharply. Softening his tone, he added, "We don't need them. I'll get Rabby and we can search the neighborhood. He can't have gone far."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"You still haven't decided what to do about Charlotte, have you?" asked Narcissa as she pressed close to her husband on the sofa in front of the fireplace in the main living area. She drew up her knees, angling herself against him, and regarded his beloved face carefully. Even when he tried to be a blank slate, she could read him; right now, in the comfort of his own home and among only family, he made no such effort, and the strain of the past few days showed plainly.

"I don't know what to do," admitted Lucius, turning to her and automatically putting an arm round her. He drew her in tight, sighing. "I wholly understand not wanting to live as a werewolf, but she puts me in an awkward position."

"It could go badly wrong," agreed Narcissa. Unspoken yet understood were the words, '_And you'd suffer for it_.'

"I talked to Severus about it. He had quite a lot to say, as he characteristically does."

"What is his opinion?" she asked, caressing his chest.

Lucius let out a light snort and shook his head. "He doesn't exactly have a love of werewolves, so he's inclined to agree with Charlotte."

"Have you said anything to Harry Potter or Sirius?"

Lucius lifted a lip in a sign of contempt. "Yes, my love, I spend a good deal of time exchanging pleasantries with them. Why, I'm on my way over there now for supper. I see no reason why I wouldn't tell them, even though Charlotte asked me to not to because they'd raise holy hell over it."

"If you do it, they're going to find out," Narcissa said bluntly, ignoring his sarcasm. "One day she's there, the next she isn't. They're not stupid, you know."

"I beg to differ," Lucius replied, allowing a small smile.

"Annoying and stupid are not necessarily synonymous," she retorted, smiling back. Her good humour faded. "They'll try to stop you, and if they can't, they'll…I'm afraid to think what they might do."

"This is Charlotte's decision," he said, as if that ended the discussion.

"Legally she can't make that decision, Lucius. She's only fifteen, and even in the muggle world that isn't considered an adult."

"What about the muggle world?" asked Draco, who'd staggered in with Ladon clinging to his leg and Khala in his arms attempting to comb his hair, which stuck up at odd angles all over his head.

"I thought you were putting the children to bed, son," said Narcissa, frowning slightly. "They'll be cranky tomorrow if they don't get to sleep soon."

"They wanted to say goodnight again," he replied, shrugging helplessly. How could he deny angelic faces like that? "Are you talking about Marcus being a muggle?"

Both of the older Malfoys looked at him with appalled expressions, as if he'd cursed them to their faces. Narcissa pried Ladon off Draco's leg as she admonished her eldest son, "Marcus is a squib, darling."

"Yeah, of course he is, Mother," Draco agreed, smirking. "Irrelevant is the fact that he was born—"

"Marcus is a squib, Draco! What about that do you not understand?" Lucius demanded. The steely cast in his grey eyes told his son he wasn't in the mood for bickering.

"Okay, whatever," Draco mumbled.

Did his parents actually believe that now, or were they trying to convince themselves? Was it so important to them that the boy they loved not be associated with the muggle world, that he not be one of _them_? He grunted to himself—of course it was! What was he thinking? Uncle Dolph's 'muggle' kid had turned out to be a wizard; Marcus was still a muggle, and therefore inferior. It simply couldn't be tolerated that Marcus was less…desirable…than the child of someone they were acquainted with. Draco understood their reasoning because when all was said and done he, too, was a pureblood snob. It made perfect sense.

"Kiss Mama and Father, and time for bed," he said to his siblings. He let Khala lean over and slobber on Lucius, then on Narcissa, and hoisted Ladon in his free arm. "Goodnight, then. I think I'll go visit Astoria for a while." He hightailed it out of the room and up the stairs.

Narcissa and Lucius had been alone for only a few minutes before Cinchona toddled into the room twisting her pillowcase in her fists. "Master Malfoy, Mister Wendolph saying he needs talking to you. He seems very upset."

"Send him in," said Lucius.

As per Lucius' instructions, Cinchona and Sisidy had used their elf magic to create a barrier that none—man or beast—could cross without the express permission of one of the elves. Malfoy Manor was as secure as Azkaban—scratch that, more secure. Additionally, he had no worries of Greyback entering, for he and Narcissa had created blood wards round all the bedrooms in the house; if anyone managed to somehow get in, they could not cross the barriers of the sleeping family. That and a very protective Sisidy had taken to sleeping in the room Khala shared with Ladon for the present. No one would harm his children.

A minute later Dolph walked in, and just as the elf had said, his expression was troubled, his face drawn, his whole body emanating anxiety. He appeared to not have even combed his hair, and his clothing revealed his true state of mind: he had skipped two belt loops, and had misbuttoned his shirt all the way down, making him look vaguely like a vagabond. "Hey, Lucius. Narcissa. I'm sorry to intrude on you, but—have you seen Timothy?"

The Malfoys exchanged disturbed glances. "No," they said in unison.

"He's not at home?" asked Narcissa, leaning forward off of her husband.

"No, he's not _anywhere_," Dolph responded, his voice catching. "Rabby and I have been looking all day—he's not in Bradford. He left a note." Lifelessly he held it out to the couple, who read it together with as much lack of comprehension as Dolph had originally displayed.

"He left because he's trouble for you," Lucius said slowly, indicating that portion of the letter. "What did he mean by that?"

"I don't know!" Dolph barked, and immediately felt sorry for it. "I just—I don't know. I can't even go to the aurors for help."

The Malfoys exchanged another knowing look. This was true—if Goodman went to the Ministry for help, they'd figure out who Timothy was, and all hell would break loose. His status as incognito may even be broken. No, it was too risky for Dolph, for Rabby, and for Timothy.

"Have you notified the muggle authorities?" asked Narcissa at length. "You live in a primarily muggle community."

Dolph shook his head and sank down onto a chair near the fire. "I don't dare. If he felt trapped and had a bout of unfocused magic, it could hurt someone, it would bring the Ministry down…" He bit his lip as he stared at the floor. "I don't understand it. Not so long ago I might have killed a boy like him and thought little of it; now I'm afraid and angry because I can't find him. What's wrong with me?"

Lucius gave a half-smile in lieu of his typical smirk. "Congratulations. You've become a father." He sighed lightly as he gently pushed his wife aside enough to allow him to get up. "Would you like me to help you look for him?"

Dolph stood up as well and gripped Lucius' shoulder with one hand. Words eluded him just now—or rather, words had a hard time fighting their way up through the lump growing in his throat. He nodded.

"Narcissa, I'll be back as soon as I can." Lucius kissed her and stood up again. "Where shall we look first? Have you scouted all the roads leading out of Bradford, including the minor ones?"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"Oh, good, you're here!" Rab pushed his way past Marshal into his London flat. "Dolph—"

"I was on my way out, for your information," Marshal informed him snappishly. He closed the door securely as always; one never knew who might be lurking about, listening—or worse. "I've got an important job planned for tonight."

With Jorab trailing after him, he crossed the room to where a large assortment of knives were displayed on the kitchen table. Without further ado, he resumed hefting them, weighing them in his hands, contemplating, and finally selecting four, which he rammed into their sheaths and slid into various pockets of his robes.

"Evidently this 'job' involves killing someone." Rab observed, nevertheless running his finger lightly along the blade of one of the remaining weapons.

"Duh," Marshal retorted. He looked up at his friend, sneering. "Aren't you the one who started the whole 'we've got to change our ways' crap?"

"How is this changing your ways?"

Marshal's expression went from vaguely amused to withering in a heartbeat. "Now I exterminate people who deserve it. Admittedly, this one's personal, but he _does_ deserve it. If you'll excuse me—"

"Timothy's gone!" Rab blurted. It pleased him to note Marshal freeze in place; at least he was going to listen. Perhaps he hadn't been wrong in thinking Marshal had a tiny soft spot for Tim. "He ran away in the night. Dolph and I have been looking for him all day, everywhere we can think of. _Point Me_ spells haven't worked from Bradford or London."

"Did you go to the police?"

"No, Dolph doesn't want to involve anyone like that…nor the Ministry, either, for obvious reasons. He's gone to see what Malfoy has to say, and I came here…" He sucked in some air and forgot to let it out as he waited for the reply.

"You want me to help look." Marshal swore under his breath, a long, convoluted string of profanity that would make a sailor proud…or perhaps ashamed for allowing himself to be bested by a landlubber. Tough call. He glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the door. "I might never get another chance like this to off that bloke!"

"Sorry for the inconvenience," Rab said sarcastically, shaking his head. "The idea is to search for a couple hours, then head back to Dolph's and compare notes. By then it'll be dark. Are you in?"

"You know I am," Marshal said, pouting. He'd had such a good plan, and now it was all for nothing. Grunting in disgust, he unpacked the knives from his pockets and slammed them onto the counter. "That kid needs a good arse whipping!"

Rab nodded at his friend. He'd been right; when the chips were down, Marshal could still be counted on. "I suppose Dolph probably agrees. And thanks, Marshal." He turned and left without another word.

The Death Eater-turned-butcher-turned-vigilante stayed behind for a few moments to gather his thoughts. So Goodman's brat had run away. What had brought that on? Dolph treated him well, he knew that for a fact. Then again, the kid was an emotional mess—and who wouldn't be, having a mum like his, and then Greyback for the next few years, and having nearly his entire pack, his family, slaughtered. It was a wonder Tim wasn't a drooling idiot after all that. In point of fact, he was quite intelligent according to the tutor, learned quickly, behaved himself. If Marshal weren't reluctant to admit it, he'd have to say he rather liked the kid in spite of his gross blood-failings.

The Goodman brothers had already searched for hours, which meant they had to be desperate to be calling in extra hands this late in the day; Dolph had got pretty attached to the boy, after all. If they didn't find him…Marshal honestly didn't want to contemplate that notion. So, where would Timothy go? Marshal pondered for only a minute, then he went into his bedroom for his broom. Casting a disillusion charm on himself, he left the flat, disapparated to the outskirts of the clearing where they'd sought Greyback, and stood in the stillness, listening.

He heard voices of men at one point, and his stomach flipped. Malfoy had said the aurors were watching the place, and it seemed that they continued to do so. Tim's ears and sense of smell were better than his own, so if he'd managed somehow to make it this far, he would not have entered the clearing. That didn't mean he wasn't in the area.

Marshal straddled the broom, kicked off, and floated up higher, higher, until he could easily skim over the treetops, then he aimed toward Avebury. The boy had led them here from that direction, so it made sense he'd come from there…only it was so far from Bradford. He simply could not have walked that distance in one night, so unless he'd ridden by car or broom, he hadn't got this far. But the Goodmans had already checked everywhere close to Bradford…

"F-k," he murmured to no one.

Well, he was here, so he might as well search the unbeaten trails leading to the clearing from Avebury and Stonehenge. After that, who knows? If Timothy had got a ride, he could literally be anywhere, including in a moving vehicle. He swore again as he flew slowly over the fields.

Taking his wand from his pocket, he balanced it on his gloved palm while hovering in the air. Couldn't hurt to try it from here, could it? Not really expecting any results, he intoned, "Point me to Timothy Goodman."

The wand gave a little jerk, then spun round and stopped at ten o'clock of his palm. Marshal let out a joyful exclamation which he hurried to hush, lest the aurors be able to hear. Whispering to himself, he said, "Happy birthday to me. That little son of a bitch is nearby."

He took off in the direction indicated by the wand, flying at a snail's pace as he scrutinized the dusky area below him. The light was already fading, making thorough search difficult. He'd been told on occasion that he had eyes like a shithouse rat…now was the time to prove it. In what felt like slow motion, he dragged along on his broom as he inspected the terrain beneath him, noticing every bump, every movement of small animals, every sway of a tree, his hawk gaze missing nothing. Every so often he repeated the spell, adjusting his flight path accordingly.

Several miles down the line, his perseverance paid off. In a patch of bushes he detected light rustling; he halted in midair and then dropped down to get a closer look. Something or someone was moving through the thicket in the direction of the clearing. When the figure broke out of the thatch of trees, Marshal swooped down, snatched the boy round the waist, and disapparated.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

"I don't have nothin' to worry about," Pa answered, refusing to budge. His mouth twisted in a grim smile, his voice harsh and graveled. "I didn't kidnap her, I didn't do anything to her…I just let her stay here, gave her lodging and food. I was afraid you'd hurt me, you know. After Charlotte was gone, you ran off and I haven't seen you since. How can anybody blame _me_ for what's happened?"

Greyback guffawed so loud half the county probably heard him. Pa afraid of him? That would be the day! Yes, the elder werewolf was slightly smaller than Fenrir, hunched somewhat and not so strong as he used to be in his prime, but he was a force to be reckoned with nonetheless…not one Greyback would challenge on a whim. The wizards didn't know that, though. And he hadn't actually done anything to Charlotte. Fenrir sat back on his haunches at the door, contemplating. That wily, grizzled codger was right: no one would believe he could take Greyback in a fight. The wizarding world was so easily mislead by innuendo, by suggestive ideas carefully planted; if he claimed to be held captive by Greyback as well, who could positively deny it? Well, alright, Charlotte could, but would she? Would she really want to see Pa punished for nothing? Not likely, she wasn't the sort.

Greyback laughed again. "You sneaky bastard," he said, nodding proudly. "Alright, stay here. I have to go. Just because no one has stormed this place yet doesn't mean they won't come looking for me here."

"You're always welcome back," Pa replied. "Where you goin'?"

"I can't tell you—in case they decide to try Veritaserum on you. It was good to see you again." He got up, crossed the room, and extended his hand to Pa, who grasped the other man's forearm tightly with his hand. Greyback did the same. "Take care."

"And you, son," Pa answered.

Greyback didn't look back when he'd left. In the few days since Charlotte's abduction by that pissy group of wizards, he'd been making his own plans. He had instantly recognized Lucius Malfoy among the group…trying to strike at his home again would be a serious problem, especially if he'd got those damned vampires to guard it. He wouldn't put it past the arrogant ponce. And Snape; Greyback shuddered involuntarily. He may have been a traitor to Voldemort, but he was strong and skilled in magic, clever, and vicious, even to the point of killing his old 'master' Dumbledore. Preferable not to tangle with him, and he offered nothing in the way of recovering Greyback's pack anyway.

Greyback wandered over the moors in the direction of the caves, as he had every day, as if Charlotte was somehow going to reappear there. Harry Potter had been there, of course; he'd have immediately secreted Charlotte off to wherever they were hiding Henry. Such a high profile wizard was hard to attack in public without a plethora of witches and wizards taking Potter's side, and he had little chance of finding him anywhere else. Arthur Weasley—what the hell was he even doing there? And the last….what was his name? Xeno—something or other…Lovegood. He remembered his face from the war, from when the man's daughter had been held captive at Malfoy's place.

A smile began to crease his face. Lovegood. Luna Lovegood's father. And had he not heard from Charlotte herself that Luna had adopted Marcus? Sure, she lived in Bulgaria in that fortress called a school, but that wouldn't be a problem because Greyback wasn't going to Bulgaria, he was going to offer her a trade: her father for Marcus. It was only fair, wasn't it? Marcus belonged to Greyback, and Luna and her husband couldn't possibly have become all that attached to the cub in the short time they'd had him. It was a no-brainer.

He stopped some distance from the caves and sniffed the air. No human scent, at least no strong, recent one. Well, that wasn't a problem; he'd simply have to go to Lovegood's place and stalk him, find the best time to get at him. He was good at that, enjoyed it, in fact. Stalking was his favourite part of stealing a child, except for the actual biting. That was…heavenly.

Greyback apparated to the region where Lovegood's house was located, where he'd learned the strange old man lived. He'd need to find out all he could before he struck; he had patience when it was warranted, and right now he had precious little to lose.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Seated sullenly on the living room sofa, Tim tried once more to get up, without success. He strained and twisted, but his rump refused to leave the sofa. Marshal had warned him that if he persisted in trying to escape, he'd plant him there with a sticking charm; apparently he made good on his word. While he squirmed, Marshal had taken up a position by the fire and was staring into it, unspeaking. Apart from the crackling of the logs, the silence was deafening.

"Why didn't you just let me go back to Greyback?" Tim grumbled suddenly.

Startled, Marshal turned his head, hesitating before answering. In his youth, Walden Macnair had done his share of childish running away; he'd sensed this kid would run to a familiar place, which he had…only Marshal hadn't actually considered that Tim wanted to meet his old pack leader! "Keep your gob shut. I had an exciting evening planned and you ruined it, thank you very much. I'm not in the mood for your crap."

"You could've left me there and nobody would've known," Tim persisted.

"Your dad is my friend," Marshal said, omitting with some effort '_you wanking little brat_'. "And for your information, I brought you back because—for some unfathomable reason—your dad wants you here. What is wrong with you, anyway? Why'd you do that, make everybody worry over you like that?"

"If he's so worried, where is he?" The question dropped deadpan, emotionless.

"He's coming, and when he does don't be surprised if he beats you black and blue." Marshal watched the boy flinch and shrink into the couch, and it left him feeling oddly dissatisfied. Ordinarily he'd have got a kick out of frightening a kid, yet this time it didn't seem right. He swiveled to face the fire again.

Half an hour passed with nary a word spoken. Another fifteen minutes elapsed before the door burst open and Dolph charged in looking disheveled and anxious. Seeing Marshal at the fireplace, he lifted his chin with a grunted greeting.

"I guess Rabby made it…" he started.

And then he noticed the top of Timothy's head barely poking up over the sofa. The boy was short for his age, and he'd sunk down in an attempt to make himself even smaller. Dolph fairly ran across the room and rounded the couch to face the child, to make sure his eyes hadn't deceived him. Having ascertained that Timothy was, in fact, seated here in his house and perfectly safe, Dolph jerked forward, grabbed the boy's biceps in his hands, and proceeded to shake him like a rag doll, with Tim's head flopping back and forth.

At length he stopped shaking the lad and forced himself to back off and calm down. Panting, he collapsed back onto the coffee table and stared for a full minute before at last barking, "Where were you? Why did you run away?"

Tim crossed his arms and glared sullenly at his father, his jaw trembling slightly. "I left 'cause you don't want me."

"What?" Dolph responded in a baffled, irritated tone.

It was harder than Tim had thought it would be to maintain his composure. He'd told himself it was best to cut all ties, to forget everything, but it wasn't working. Struggling valiantly not to break down and make himself look like a fool on top of everything else, he said, "You promised—that day I killed the dog—you said you wouldn't send me away." His voice was growing higher and for the life of him he couldn't stop it. "Then the very next day you started talking about dumping me off at Hogwarts, and how happy you were about it."

He bit his lip to keep from allowing the tears to tumble unbidden down his cheeks. Huddled back on the sofa, pulled into himself, he looked every bit the lost waif he was.

Dolph thought back to the day he'd bought Timothy his wand. Yes, he'd been ecstatic, and he'd said how happy he'd be to send his son to Hogwarts…ah, shit. "Timothy, I was happy to find out you're a wizard." He awkwardly reached out to comfort the boy, and having no idea how to do that, his hand hovered in midair until at last he merely rested it on the child's leg.

Tim remained rigid, though the man's touch shattered his resolve and the weeping started despite his best efforts, his phrases punctuated by sobs. "But then last night—I heard you arguing—with Professor Snape. I wasn't eavesdropping—you were yelling. You couldn't even—pawn me off—on him! I don't wanna—stay here—just to be—shuffled off—in a few months. At least—Greyback—still wants me." He ducked his head and the tears streamed down his face onto his chest, where they formed a large wet blotch.

At the mention of Greyback, Dolph's insides froze. The whole time he'd assumed his son feared the werewolf and wanted nothing to do with him…but Tim had actually gone looking for Greyback, hadn't he? Desperate for the love and acceptance he evidently didn't feel at home, he'd chosen to return to a vicious werewolf rather than be alone. How had it come to this? Dolph had thought everything was going along so well.

In a barely audible voice, he murmured, "_I_ want you, Timothy. I wouldn't have adopted you if it wasn't so. You scared me half to death when I found you gone, and believe me when I say that's not an easy thing to do."

Tim drew in a quivering breath, raising his eyes. "Why were you scared?"

"I thought Greyback had kidnapped you, or you'd been hurt, or…" He inched closer to the lad until their knees knocked together; reaching out a hand, he gently lifted the boy's chin and looked him straight in the eye. It was now or never. If he screwed this up, he may never get another chance. Time to step up and be the man his son needed him to be. "Because I love you and I was afraid I'd lost you."

Tim blinked several times. No one had ever said that to him. Ever. He studied the man's eyes for signs of falsehood, and finding none he replied, "I was scared too. Kind of for the same reason."

"We make quite a pair then, don't we?"

"Yes, sir." Tim paused, wiping the tears from his face with his hands and sleeves. He'd caused a hassle for his dad and everyone else, it would only be natural for him to be cross about it. He ventured softly, "I'm sorry. I won't be bad anymore."

"You weren't bad, you were afraid," Dolph answered, every bit as softly. "It was my fault, too, for not trying to understand your point of view. You told me you didn't want to go to school, and I didn't listen." _I didn't think of what your life had been like up until you came to live with me_; _I didn't consider how insecure you feel_.

"So you're not mad at me?"

"No," Dolph replied. A mischievous grin touched his lips, but he tempered it with a stern warning, "But if you run away again, I'll hunt you down and beat your arse. I can't go through this again."

A lopsided smile began to crease the boy's face. "Dad…I want to hug you. Can I?"

A warmth rushed through Dolph's chest and he smiled back. "Okay. What's stopping you?"

"I can't get up. He stuck me to the seat," Tim explained, pointing at Marshal.

Dolph glanced at the other bloke by the fire, who grinned sheepishly and shrugged one shoulder. Taking out his wand, he removed the charm binding his son to the sofa and held out his arms. The boy flew into them, and Dolph crushed Tim in a hard embrace. If the man's larynx hadn't decided to lodge itself in a ball in his throat, he'd have said something brilliant; instead, he just hugged his boy and thanked all that was holy that he was alright…that _they_ were alright. At that moment, it was all that mattered.


	87. Penultimate

17

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 87 (Penultimate)

**April 18, 1938**

It was the day after Easter, and Tom was away from the orphanage for the first time. He didn't mind, of course; he'd never liked going to church, pretending to believe in a power greater than himself, but he'd had no alternative every holiday there. Now he was at Hogwarts, where no one cared if he went to church, or if he believed in God, or if—well anything, really. He was free to prowl the library alone, for none of the other students remaining at the school stepped foot there unless necessary.

He had trolled the stacks looking for something interesting, something light to enjoy after all the studying he'd been doing, when his eye fell upon a surprisingly untattered book jacket. While most of the volumes showed considerable wear from years of use, this one could have been placed there yesterday. He pulled it from between the books holding it in place and ran a hand over the cover. _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._ Sounded like a fairy tale. He opened the tome to flip through, and found himself enthralled by the illustrations.

He grunted a laugh. A fairy tale in the Hogwarts library. How odd. Shuffling over to the nearest table, he sat down, laid the book in front of him, and began to read. In short order he'd devoured the entire book, and sat back smiling to himself. His favourite story by far had been The Tale of the Three Brothers, with its haunting beckoning to him. Master of Death. How awesome would that be? It was a silly dream, of course, since it was merely a tale…but still. And that wand—the Elder Wand. What if one like it truly ever existed? Whoever owned it had to be the most powerful wizard in the world!

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**March 22, 2001**

_April 18, 1938_

_ I read the strangest book today in the library. It contained fairy tales like the Grimm's version, only about wizards and witches. I had no idea they carried such non-intellectual fare, but I suppose it's a good thing since we all get tired of studying sometimes. I wonder if there are any other books like this? Tomorrow I must search and find out._

_ One story spoke to me. Not literally, of course. I felt drawn in by the idea of becoming the master of Death, to never die like my poor mother. I should like to have known her. It's only a book, I know. Such things are never real. Perhaps tomorrow I will find another book to entertain me._

Severus closed the diary and slipped it back into Therese's trunk and locked it securely. He hated skulking about, reading it when he was certain she was in class. If he asked, surely she would not mind if he read it, but he couldn't bring himself to ask, and so he continued to satisfy his curiosity bit by bit, reading through Tom's first and second year at Hogwarts to complete the picture the rest had drawn for him.

He slipped out of the round, yellow and black room, through the common room decorated disturbingly the same, and into the hallway where he felt free to muse on what he'd read. So here was where Tom had first learned about the Elder Wand. At what point he'd come to believe it may really exist remained a mystery. If only he'd forgotten about it…if only…if. There were so many_ ifs_ where Lord Voldemort was concerned, and thanks to these diaries and his servitude under the dark lord, Snape had firsthand knowledge of many of them, making him uniquely qualified to ponder the soul of the loathsome man Tom had grown into. What had Mum used to say? _If wishes were horses, beggars would ride_. Thanks to Tom Riddle, there were far fewer horses and riders.

He shook his head and continued on to his classroom. Some Dark Arts might help put him in a better frame of mind, if not a better mood. Wouldn't want to frighten the children by smiling or some such nonsense.

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**March 22, 2001**

Snape was down there again. Lying face down on the bed, Tim put his pillow over his head and hummed softly, tonelessly, to drown out the sound of the droning voices. They weren't shouting or arguing, and that frightened him all the more. Dad had promised him—not for the first time—that he'd not send him away, and he wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it. But then why was the Hogwarts Headmaster here once more? True, it could be for any number of reasons not related to Tim at all…Dad and his friends seemed to have a lot going on. Back to Snape. Or more like back to Dad: he'd sworn in front of Uncle Rab and Mr. Marshal that Tim was to stay here with him, and his word meant something. Right? A forefinger slipped into his mouth and he chewed the nail nervously.

Below, Severus and Dolph continued their discussion, unaware that above them Timothy was at the end of his rope with worry. As a gesture of friendship, Severus took a meager sip of the wine he'd been offered. "Are you sure? He's a boy, he doesn't understand what's best for him."

Dolph smiled halfheartedly. "Maybe so. But he understands abandonment and betrayal." Unless he was mistaken, he'd seen the barest flicker of something in Snape's eye at that comment. What was it? He shook his head slightly. It didn't matter. "If I sent Timothy away to another school, he'd run off again, and whether we caught him this time or not, I'd lose him forever. He'd never believe another word I said."

"So you've made up your mind?" Severus asked, rather unnecessarily.

"Yes. And don't think I'm putting all this on Timothy. When he was gone, I—I can't even describe the emptiness I felt."_ And the fear. _That was something he didn't readily admit to anyone, even under dire circumstances. No point in giving Snape that leverage over him, now wasthere?He paused to swirl _t_he red liquid in his goblet, studying it as if his life depended on it. He opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it. To tell Snape that he needed Timothy as much as the boy needed him would make him vulnerable, and certainly be a foolhardy move, and Wendolph Goodman was not a foolish man. He hadn't lived this long by wearing his heart on his sleeve.

"What if, down the road, Timothy decides he wishes to attend a school?" asked Severus.

Dolph shrugged languidly. "I doubt that will happen, but if it does, then it will be his choice. I refuse to compel him to go when I know it will damage him and our relationship."

"I'm not suggesting you should," answered the other. In fact, he believed Dolph had made the right decision. Taking into consideration Tim's lycanthropy, and his fragile emotional state—in addition to the real danger of his being recognized and opening a Pandora's box—it was the only option that made complete sense. "I'm simply concerned about the extent of schooling he'll receive from you."

The moment it popped from his mouth he knew it had been a mistake. No, the second it began speeding from his brain to his tongue he knew, yet he'd not been able to stop it. He swore inwardly and clenched his teeth for the onslaught.

"You really are a prick, you know that?" Dolph said, though to Snape's happy surprise he grinned as he spoke. "Everyone says you're a smug, conceited know-it-all, and you just proved it. Well, actually they use worse language, but you get the gist of it."

Severus cleared his throat, resisting the temptation to sneer and demand to know _who _said such things about him. _Everyone_ was rather a broad term, and probably not accurate. "Obviously I selected the wrong words. What I meant was, how are you going to work, fulfill your firefighting duties, and still have time to teach your son?"

Ah, the other shoe drops. Dolph smiled back with the smugness he'd recently accused Snape of. He'd been waiting to spring his brainchild. "Mr. Ulysses is an excellent tutor. He'll continue to teach Timothy in wizarding and muggle history, reading, mathematics, and so on. He'll be responsible for the book work whilst the rest of us teach him practical magic like transfigurations, charms, Dark Arts, dueling. I'll not be alone, I'll have Rabby, Marshal, Nott, and Malfoy to help out—and you, if you'd agree. You're not bad at Dark Arts and dueling. And aside from your wife, you're the best I know at Potions." His smirk grew into a broad smile that Snape couldn't be angry with, not when he was so well aware of the respect he enjoyed among his peers for his skills.

"Sounds like you've got it sorted," observed Severus dryly. "Every child ought to know basic Potions, and God knows none of you could make a sleeping draught or boil cream without blowing up your house, so I can hardly refuse. If I may, I'd like to speak to Timothy."

Dolph cocked his head, curious and suspicious at once, pondering what his comrade had up his sleeve. "Timothy!" he shouted. That was one good thing about the kid's werewolf ears—he couldn't deny hearing his father shout for him.

A few seconds later footsteps pounded down the hallway, then down the steps, and Tim came to stand in front of his father next to the fireplace. "Yes, sir?"

"Professor Snape wants to talk to you."

Tim turned to the other man warily, then glanced back at Dolph.

Severus set the glass of wine on the coffee table and leaned back in his chair. "Timothy, I understand I am partially to blame for you running away. You overheard the conversation I had with your father, and misconstrued my implication. I wish to assure you I had no intention of denigrating you in any way when I informed your father of the risks to having you attend Hogwarts."

Tim crinkled his brow and looked at Dolph again, his puzzlement evident. "Huh?"

"He's apologizing for being a prat about you going to Hogwarts," Dolph explained.

Lifting his chin in understanding, Tim noted the scowl on the Potions master's face. Apparently he didn't appreciate Dad's interpretation. Or maybe he was upset that Tim hadn't got it when he said it. "It's okay, Professor, I understand. You were just covering your own arse."

Dolph clapped the boy on the back and burst out in howls of laughter that only served to deepen Snape's scowl. _Yes, why don't we teach the child to laugh at Snape, you moron_. As it was pointless to argue with the troglodyte posing as a father figure, Severus ignored the insult. "I was protecting all of us. If you'd gone there and been recognized, the authorities would have investigated. You might have been taken away from your father, and he might have been imprisoned."

"Don't let that happen, Dad," cautioned Tim, edging up to him.

"I won't, son. I told you I'm going to teach you at home, and you'll learn everything I know….well, not _everything_, but most of it. Snape has even agreed to be one of your teachers."

"Honest? I thought you didn't like me," said Tim, eyes widening. "That's so cool! Dad says you're a strong, clever wizard."

"Does he?" asked Severus. He'd have thought Dolph used words more akin to 'sneaky' and 'overbearing'. Clever was good. "And I do like you, Timothy. I need to discuss the details with your father, so I won't keep you any longer. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Professor. Goodnight, Dad." He threw his arms impulsively round his father, then skipped off up the stairs, no longer afraid or worried. He was the luckiest kid ever; he was going to learn real magic from a whole bunch of skilled wizards! Why would anyone need school with teachers like his?

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Marshal apparated to the narrow balcony outside _his_ flat, on one of the highest levels of the building. He never gave a name to the man, whom he considered less than a man to begin with, and the fact that he'd ever had anything to do with Ophelia only made Marshal more stalwart in his decision to continue denying him that vestige of humanity. Soon enough it wouldn't matter, for his humanity shall have vanished, extinguished with his last pitiful breath.

He patted his pockets where his selection of knives rattled silently against his body in their sheaths. Everything was set. Marshal took a deep breath of anticipation; he was going to enjoy this one…more than usual, that is. Setting his jaw, he unlocked the door with his wand. His eyes squinted a bit; it had been too easy. Anyone with the amount of money this bloke had would certainly have wards and probably alarms as well, despite the elevation and lack of opportunity for the average criminal. After all, muggles were only one threat.

Marshal looked down at the pavement where passersby scurried along in the evening's dim lamplight. If they gazed upward, the city lights would blind them to his presence, so high above them they appeared almost as cockroaches. He need only worry about the occupant he had come for, for he'd already cloaked himself in glamour charms against any identification.

He turned his attention back to the balcony glass doors and whispered one of the many ward breakers he'd learned from Lord Voldemort and from his comrades. A fine purple mist lifted itself from the frame of the glass doors and fizzled round the door before sputtering to nothing, dissipating into the air. One down. He muttered another, with no effect, and another. Still nothing. Two more yielded a pale yellow ring that floated off into the night, followed by a deep crimson wall that changed to blue before dropping straight through the floor of the balcony; the upper portion remained hissing and lapping at his feet, then it dissolved into the cement. That was the last of them; he'd removed enough wards in his time to recognize the final one.

Carefully he tried the door, and it swung open soundlessly. He eased in, letting his eyes adjust to the complete lack of light. All at once it occurred to him how unnatural this was—right before something very hard struck him in the chest. He dropped his wand as he exhaled in a grunt that left him doubled over—to his good fortune, for another blow from a broomstick whistled over his head.

Instinctively he struck back. He lunged forward, righting himself as he put his full weight into a furious fist that connected with the sickening sound of crunching bone. The man on the receiving end, substantially smaller than Marshal and not at all muscular, shrieked and fell back; a table crashed beneath him, scattering its contents across the living room floor. The broomstick flew out of his hand into a wall and dropped to the floor. He rolled off the table and began to crawl rapidly toward the hallway, but Marshal grabbed his ankle and dragged him back, flipping him onto his spine with the intention to whale on him some more. The man kicked at him, grazing him in the gut and incensing him further.

Marshal twisted the ankle he still held in his hand, and the fellow flipped back to his stomach, screeching in pain. He pushed the man's neck down with his other hand, fiercely grinding his face into the plush carpet. When the struggling lessened, he let go of the leg and commenced to strangling the bloke with both hands until he went limp.

Panting, Marshal _accio'_d his wand—or rather, he tried to. Nothing happened. He summoned it again, unsuccessfully. Swearing, he scurried across the carpet on hands and knees, feeling for where he'd dropped it, and clutched it in his fist. He pointed it at his opponent and muttered, "_Petrificus_ _totalus_." The bloke wasn't dead, only unconscious, it should have worked. Again nothing happened, and to say Marshal was beginning to worry was a gross understatement. Hell's bells, was he turning into a squib? Was that even possible?

"_Lumos_." A stream of profanity issued from his mouth. Why wasn't it working?

He stomped across the floor and clicked on the lamp setting on a side table in the foyer at the front door. With the light illuminating the spacious area and casting eerie shadows, he surveyed the situation cautiously. He'd heard it was feasible to prevent all magic from being used in a home, though he'd never known a family to do so, since it also prevented any mundane magic that wizards utilized on a daily basis. Perhaps that was what was in play here…he hoped that was the reason for this sudden ill-timed and disturbing state of affairs.

He stalked over to the prone body and kicked him in the side. The man groaned and turned his head. "Wake up. What's your name?"

Another groan. Marshal kicked him again, not any more gently. The fellow finally said, "Barry…Barry Nestler. Why are you here? What do you want? Money?"

"Why is my magic not working?" he growled.

"Maybe you're not a wizard."

Wrong thing to say. Marshal clobbered him in the back of the head, slamming his face into the rug again. "Try again."

"I've charmed the flat," Barry admitted, lifting his arms to cover his head against another blow. "It can't be removed by anyone but me."

Marshal sat back on his heels, pondering. Not a problem, strictly speaking, since he didn't intend to do his work here. Alright, he'd play along. He could drag the idiot to the country where he'd prepared a spot for his…what should he call it…justice center? Whatever. After he was done, he could come back and straighten up the apartment, collect the jerk's wand to make it look like he'd left of his own accord, and vanish into the night.

"Up you go." A strong hand on the back of Barry's neck hauled him to his feet. "We're goin' on a trip."

"Please, tell me what you want!" the other begged. "I can get you all the galleons you want!"

"I'm not interested in your money," said Marshal as he lazily dragged the man to the balcony doors with one hand. "We've got other business to discuss."

A final wrench pulled them outside and Marshal disapparated with Barry in tow. They arrived with a popping sound in the middle of a dark, still wood in which a small clearing had been set up. Large rocks surrounded what looked to be a pit. Marshal whisked his wand about and torches lit in the four corners. Barry gulped.

"First order of business, drink this." Marshal uncapped a tiny vial, held it up to Barry's mouth, and forced it in. He then clapped a hand over his mouth until the man had swallowed. He dropped Nestler to the ground, then stepped back, bound him with invisible ropes, and squatted in front of him. "I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer truthfully. The Veritaserum you just drank will insure that. Afterwards, I will exact retribution for your offenses, and when I'm done I'm going to burn your rotten body with Fiendfyre in that pit. No one will ever find you because there won't be anything to find."

Nestler groaned, his bleary eyes unfocused, barely comprehending.

"Have you ever hurt Ophelia or Portia?" asked Marshal, fully expecting a 'yes'.

"No," answered Barry in a thick, drunken drawl.

"Bullshit!" Marshal exploded, slapping the man in the face. "You hurt her all the time with your disgusting threats of taking away her daughter!"

"I never hit her, or my daughter," Barry said, shaking his head. "I don't wanna hurt her…I just want my Portia. If Ophelia marries me, we can be happy again."

Marshal hesitated in the next query, then went on, "Do you love Ophelia?"

"I don't know," Barry moaned. "I don't know. I love my daughter."

Marshal got up to pace the area, cursing intermittently as he walked. This was not how it was supposed to go! Nestler was supposed to admit what a douche bag he was, and Marshal was supposed to punish him for it! If he had to rely on entrapment, so be it. He whirled round. "Have you ever murdered or raped anyone?"

"No."

Damn. "Do you cheat in your business dealings?"

"I don't have a business, I inherited my money from a wealthy relative."

Son of a bitch! This was not going well at all. "What is the worst thing you've ever done?"

There was a pause while Barry reflected. At last he said, "I think probably when I stole a bicycle when I was ten. My dad thrashed me good and mum made me give it back."

"Let me rephrase," said Marshal, becoming more than irritated. "What is the worst thing you ever did to Ophelia?"

"I cheated on her," he murmured, and his eyes filled with tears. "It was stupid. It ruined everything."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Marshal spat out, stomping back and forth in a tizzy.

Yes, infidelity was a bad thing—but it hardly merited death, did it? As a follower of Lord Voldemort, Marshal had killed many people in his time, and of those number, a good many of them had likely not deserved it. As a vigilante, he'd confined himself to murdering those vermin whom the justice system had let fall through the cracks. As much as he'd love to lump Nestler into that pile, he couldn't bring himself to. What, then, was he to do about Ophelia's gratingly annoying and potentially harmful ex-husband? If left to his own devices, he'd destroy Ophelia and Portia, and Marshal along with them. That was simply intolerable.

He pulled aside his cloak to reveal three knives secured there. He stared down at them longingly. Oh, how he'd love to use them now, and at the same time it would give him far less pleasure than…guilt? Why should he feel guilty? Nestler was a troublemaker, a prick of the highest order, he couldn't be set free. But there were other methods at his disposal, were there not? He had been a Death Eater, hadn't he? He knew how to get around the system.

"You are one of the worst pains in the arse I have ever had the misfortune to meet," he grumbled, approaching the drugged man. "But from now on you're going to behave yourself." He aimed his wand directly at Barry's face, making him flinch. "_Obliviate_."

He waited a few seconds while the majority of the confusion dissipated, then aimed his wand again. He vaguely wished Malfoy were here for this part, for he was known to be incredibly good at this particular curse. Nonetheless, he had to make due, and he was no slouch where dark magic was concerned. The curse would hold. "_Imperio_."

Barry's body relaxed so completely he seemed almost asleep, but Marshal knew better. The bloke's eyes had taken on the characteristic glazed look of a trance. "You will obey everything I tell you. You will cease harassing Ophelia, you will not contact her or bother her in any way. You will leave her boyfriend and your daughter alone as well, except on the days Ophelia allows you to see Portia. Also, you will gift a significant number of galleons to Ophelia for her living expenses…I'd suggest ten thousand galleons, minimum. Per year. This in addition to alimony, of course." He paused to think. Was there anything else? "And that injured cheekbone—you got that when you fell in the dark on the table." If he thought of anything later, he could always make another visit, right?

Grasping the man's collar in his fist, he apparated back to the balcony, dragged the man inside, and flung him onto the floor beside the broken table. "Go to bed." Barry obediently got up and headed for the hallway.

Marshal went back outside, shut the door and locked it, and began rebuilding the wards he'd taken down. Which ones had they been? He had to establish them exactly as he'd found them lest he be discovered. He was very good at not being discovered. Details, details. The devil was in the details.

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**March 25, 2001**

"What are we waiting for?" Sirius grumbled, fidgeting in his chair. It was bad enough Charlotte had dragged him to bloody Malfoy Manor, of all places; now he had to wait for the 'master of the house' to appear?

He looked to the side where Narcissa watched over Henry, who was playing with Marcus and the Malfoy toddlers. Too bad the kids had such a git for a father, they seemed to be perfectly normal in all other respects. Henry was having a good time; he'd missed Marcus, and obviously the blond werewolf had missed him, too. It was a shame he lived so far away now and only visited on occasion.

"Do you think he'll be much longer?" asked Sirius impatiently.

Narcissa smiled coyly at her cousin. Lucius had instructed her to please, please not interfere, to not tell Sirius what Lucius had up his sleeve. He looked forward to the expression on the prat's face when he came in. Since it wasn't in any way harmful, Narcissa had played along. In a marriage, one must be willing to humour the other partner from time to time if one expected humouring in the future.

"He's on his way, Sirius. Can't you have a drink and calm down?" She motioned to the elf in the corner to carry a tray to the man, who picked up a tumbler of purple liquid, which he sniffed warily.

He took a sip and nearly spit it back out onto the floor. Gagging slightly, he gasped, "What is this?"

Narcissa shrugged. "Some elf concoction. They enjoy trying new things."

"Mama, Marcus pushed me," Ladon tattled.

"Did not! You ran into me," answered the littlest werewolf.

"Let's all go to the playroom where there's loads of room," Narcissa suggested, gathering Khala into her arms. She directed Ladon to the door with a hand on his head, and the older boys followed along. Henry called out a goodbye to his sister, who smiled faintly and waved at him.

Sirius dragged his concentration back to the matter at hand, one he wished he didn't have to think about. Charlotte sat stony-faced in the chair opposite him, deep in her own thoughts. At times like this he wished he were a Legilimens like Snape. His features twisted slightly, immediately repenting of the mere idea of ever hoping to be like Snape in any way, shape, or form.

Finally Lucius entered the room, back straight, chin up, and—in Sirius' estimation—looking every bit the arrogant prig he was. And with him was a man he'd seen before, golden blond hair cropped short, pale blue eyes that seemed to pierce through a person. No, not a man anymore. A vampire. What the f—k? They were here to _talk_ only, that had been the deal!

"Malfoy, what are you trying to pull?" he demanded.

Both Lucius and Mateo turned to him at the sound of their name. Lucius regarded him, eyes half-lidded, voice cold and disdainful. "Were I trying to 'pull something', I'd have done it long ago. Charlotte has asked a favour of me; in order to honour her wish, I had to speak to my uncle. Given the unusual circumstances, he decided it wise to observe for himself."

"I see Lucius didn't exaggerate your hostility," said Mateo as he lazily crossed the room, his steps so light on the floor he almost seemed to be floating above it. He stopped in front of Charlotte and made a tiny bow of acknowledgment. "How have you been?" he asked her.

"Alright," she answered timidly. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been sending her off with Lucius to England; before that, she'd been his prisoner in the underground vampire mansion after her pack had unsuccessfully attacked his cult with the intention of destroying them.

"See, she's fine. Why are we even here?" Sirius continued.

"If you'd like to leave, the door is that way," Lucius replied dryly, pointing at the double doors of the drawing room. "Surely even you can find your way out."

"I'm not leaving so you can talk Charlotte into something despicable," Sirius sniped back.

Mateo rounded on him, eyes glowing in the dim light of the room, teeth bared just enough to show his menacing canines. "Despicable? It's a good thing you're stupid enough to tell me outright your feelings about me. Now I know to watch you more closely."

"I didn't mean that, exactly," Sirius backtracked, feeling as stupid as Mateo had accused him of being. "I meant she's a child, she can't make a decision like this."

"In that, I agree," Mateo said. He drifted over and seated himself onto the couch by the fireplace. Although he never felt cold, despite the frigid temperature of his body, he did enjoy the warmth that came from a controlled fire a good distance away. "The boy—" he indicated Henry, who'd left only a minute before the men had entered, and whom he'd passed in the hall "—is far too young to even consider. Until he is full grown and makes that choice on his own, he will not be included in this discussion."

Lucius came over and sat beside his uncle, directing his speech at the girl. "Charlotte, this isn't a game, and once done it cannot be undone. You must realize that now."

"I do," she said softly. She glanced at Mateo then back to Lucius. "The Wolfsbane doesn't work on me, meaning I'm stuck being a danger to everyone around me every month of my life. I can't live like that anymore. I can't take the chance of killing my brother or anyone else I love." Here she gazed imploringly at Sirius, who ducked his head and averted his eyes to avoid the full impact of it. "I want to be a vampire."

"That's another factor—is such a thing even possible?" inquired Sirius.

"We are unsure," admitted Mateo. "Yadiro and I discussed it at length. We know that _sangristas_…vampires…can't become werewolves. Many of us have been bitten with no effect, most likely because we are already dead, and a werewolf requires a living body. Conversely, we fear that giving vampire powers to a werewolf could prove catastrophic. A werewolf capable of flight, a werewolf who is immortal…it is a horrifying thought."

"Severus and I have also spent a good deal of time deliberating on this topic," Lucius said. He ignored the snort coming from Black at the mention of Severus. "He insists he is correct—"

"Of course he does, that git always thinks he's right," Sirius interrupted.

"Black, either shut it or get out," Lucius hissed through clenched teeth, no longer willing to ignore the strident transgressions. He paused to collect himself, then went on, "Severus says that in becoming a vampire, the person's body dies; thus, the magic involved in being a werewolf dies with him or her."

Mateo's pale blue eyes settled on his nephew in an unsettling way. "When I became a _sangrista_, my magic left me. I was a wizard," he explained to Sirius. "It does follow that when someone passes, the magic of any kind will expire as well."

"There is one catch," Lucius added solemnly. "If you attempt to bring her into the fold, Charlotte will either become a vampire, or she will simply die. There are no crossovers or merging of the two." On the plus side, at least they wouldn't have to worry about flying, immortal werewolves. On the downside, Charlotte could lose her life for nothing.

There was a long, deathly quiet pause before Mateo drove home the point once more. "If it doesn't work, you'll just be…dead. There will be nothing I can do to prevent it."

"I understand," she said, her voice cracking. "But if it works, will you also change Henry?"

"No," Mateo replied, giving no room for argument. "He is a small child. If we changed him, he would remain a small child forever. We believe any _sangrista_ who does such things to be abhorrent."

"No matter any of this, for the record, I am against this entire proceeding," Sirius said loudly.

"Yes, Black, we understood that the first thirty-four times you said it," Lucius drawled. "The fact remains that you can change to a wolf at will—"

"It's a dog, Malfoy. Try to get it right."

"What. Ever. You have the option to transform into a _canine_. You chose it. Charlotte did not." Lucius shifted his body just enough to angle away from his cousin-in-law, as though the proximity might be contaminating.

"Lucius, if I may have a private word?" Mateo stood, inclining his head toward the door.

Lucius got up and followed him to the door, where they stood outside speaking in hushed tones that could not be discerned through the thick wood.

"Clearly you understand that I must be suspicious of the girl," began Mateo. "My cult killed her family, if you can call it that."

"Her pack," supplied Malfoy.

"Alright, her pack. Don't you think she may have ulterior motives for wanting to join us? Revenge, perhaps?"

Lucius nodded sagely. He'd thought of that when first Charlotte had proposed the idea to him. "I drugged her with Veritaserum and questioned her clandestinely. I believe she genuinely wishes to become one of you, not out of spite, but out of desperation for her own condition."

"You'll forgive me if I check for myself?" asked Mateo. With Lucius' assent, he reentered the room and walked to Charlotte, where he looked down at her. When their eyes met, he held her gaze for a few seconds, long enough to create a hypnotic bond. He murmured questions to her, which she answered in a slow, drugged-sounding tone.

"What's he doing?" asked Sirius, growing concerned.

"Nothing for you to worry your pretty little canine head about," Lucius answered, smirking. "He's simply ascertaining whether she speaks the truth."

"I can stop this, you know," warned Sirius. "And I don't mean whatever he's doing, I mean changing her. I can go to the Ministry."

"I suppose you can," Lucius replied with a nonchalant shrug. "And she can hate and resent you for forcing her to be a danger to her own brother. Either way, it works out for me."

"I really hate you, Malfoy. Have I told you that lately?"

"I'm certain you have, but I can never hear it often enough," Lucius sneered back at him.

Mateo stepped back from Charlotte, breaking the hypnotic link, and cleared his throat for attention. "I find nothing threatening in her, but Yadiro expressed his misgivings about this as well," he said. "He is the cult leader, and his word is final. He'll want to probe her mind himself."

"I'd expect nothing less," said Lucius. Yadiro had a responsibility to his cult to protect them, and if Charlotte posed a threat, she must not be allowed to enter. "We'll take some time for Charlotte to consider the enormity of this, and for you to speak to Yadiro. Then, if everyone is of accord, I'll bring her to you in Spain."

"Sounds fair. For now, I'd like a nap. I've been up all night, you know." He grinned at his nephew and headed for the dungeons where he habitually slept when here. "See you this evening!"


	88. And So It Ends

18

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 88 (And So It Ends)

**March 1997**

Snape didn't know why the dark lord had made an appearance at Hogwarts, and he dared not ask. If Voldemort wanted to visit, he was going to do so, and getting himself _crucio_'d by asking stupid questions would accomplish nothing. They'd walked along the lake, chatting idly about the students, how things were going in the Ministry…but not about the Malfoys. The one thing Severus was interested to know, one thing that preyed on his mind for the safety of his dear friends. No, he'd not inquire, nor even act as if he cared.

Voldemort gestured with a bony white hand toward the castle. "You have work to get to, I assume."

"Indeed, my lord, I do. If there is nothing you require?"

"I shall join you in the castle shortly. Leave me now." Voldemort answered, his cold, high voice ringing through the cool, dusk air. He watched Snape bow, whirl with a billowing of his cloak, and stride away.

He waited until Snape was out of sight to turn and head back along the lake; for good measure he cast a disillusionment charm over himself, making him completely invisible to prying eyes. No one ought to see where he was going, what he intended to do. As he walked, he glanced back at the castle, and his chest filled with something akin to pride. His—it was all his, or would be soon enough. Maybe he'd even install a throne in place of the seat Dumbledore had used in the Great Hall. It would be appropriate, after all.

Not much further he stopped, and his good mood dissipated a bit at the sight. The white marble tomb formed a blot on the serenity of his old stomping grounds, yet at the same time it sent a rush of euphoria. He was so close to his goal he could almost taste it!

He raised his yew wand and the tomb split open from head to foot with a rumbling of the earth. Another swipe of the wand split the shroud, revealing Dumbledore's body, which lay perfectly still inside, the Elder wand clutched beneath his hands on his chest. Voldemort suppressed an amused sneer at the spectacles perched on the old wizard's nose. So powerful, but not clever enough to create horcruxes so that he'd not die. He didn't deserve the Elder wand.

Voldemort bent down and snatched the wand from the dead fingers, and as he did so a shower of sparks flew from its tip. It recognized him as its new master; it was ready to serve him in his quest for world domination!

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

_May 2, 1998_

_ I have been awake all night, watching as my followers besiege the castle, waiting for the victory that has not yet come. Harry Potter is still alive and at large. Oh, I dare say the time is at hand, and I will reign supreme over the land, but that is not what troubles me. It is the wand I hold in my hand, the Elder wand that promises so much and has produced for me so little. I had high hopes when I stole it from Dumbledore's tomb, I thought it would lead me to great victory in short order. That has not been the case._

_ And so I have sat in the Shrieking Shack all night, pondering. Why has it failed me? I am its rightful owner, am I not? Legend tells us that the wand must perform brilliantly for its rightful owner…and that, I fear, is the rub. Throughout history, murder has been the way this wand passes hands; I did not defeat Dumbledore to obtain it. Snape did._

_ I regret what I must do—and I do not say that lightly. Most of my minions are easily replaceable, and I care nothing for them or their silly concerns or desires. Snape, on the other hand, has been an exemplary follower who gave me the key to winning everything through the destruction of Harry Potter. I will find him hard to replace. But I do what I must do._

_ After our victory today, I will be very busy with the reorganization of the wizarding world. I must leave this diary here with the others until such time as I am able to write again, when things are settled down and secure and I have my office in the Ministry. There will be much to do in order to steer society into the proper direction, to rebuild, to assign minions as watchers over portions of the land to report to me. Until my name is venerated throughout the land, I take my leave._

Severus swallowed over his dry throat, his hands trembling ever so little. Voldemort had told him why he was going to kill him, and he had genuinely seemed sorry for it, which in itself was unusual since Voldemort ordinarily murdered wantonly without a speck of regret. Nevertheless, to see it written out so boldly, to know his death had been planned and carried out according to plan—or nearly so—unnerved him a touch. The memory, although somewhat faded, had roared back with a vengeance…the great Nagini tearing at his flesh, the terror, the pain…

He blinked back the memory and shut the book. Throughout it all, the dark lord had always managed to keep these diaries a secret from any of his followers, had evidently done so by apparating to the old farmhouse, writing his thoughts, and sealing them up again behind the warded wall. The sneaky bastard realized he had a weakness, which he hid from them all until now. It gave Severus some pleasure to know Tom Riddle would howl in fury over anyone reading these diaries, that he'd kill them without hesitation or pity, only now he had no choice, he could do nothing. He could never do anything again, and that was a very comforting thought.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 28, 2001**

"I almost didn't make it," Lucius said to his uncle as he led Charlotte down the wide stone steps leading into the underground mansion. From the corner of his eye he observed her taking in the scene, the humans and_ sangristas_ watching them, her reaction to the unexpected grandeur of the place—much like his own so many years ago. Although she'd seen it before, she had been in a rather precarious situation at the time and in no position to care about the estate. "Potter was unwilling to agree, but I suspect that little girlfriend of his had a hand in things, because she visited, and next moment we were on our way."

"Ginny doesn't like me much," Charlotte explained in a timid voice, edging closer to the wizard. "She's afraid of me 'cause the Wolfsbane doesn't work. Not that she ever wanted Harry to have anything to do with me or Henry," she added bitterly.

"We do not fear you here," said a voice with the tiniest hint of an accent. Yadiro Buitrago strode into view, and the other vampires immediately made way for their leader, sweeping aside and leaving a broad entryway. His face, while rather stern, did not appear cruel or unpleasant, though the shadows flickering against him from the torches lining the walls made him seem mysterious and slightly sinister, as vampires were commonly believed to be. He beckoned the girl forward and turned her to the rest of the people in the room. "These are but a few of the members in our cult. I have asked their opinions before making my decision, for it will affect us all."

Charlotte waited breathlessly for him to go on, and when he didn't she ventured, "And that is?"

"You didn't tell her?" Mateo demanded, elbowing his nephew in the gut.

"I thought it should come from you," Lucius grunted back, bristling a bit. "If I told Potter and Black there were reservations, they'd have refused to allow her to come."

"I will hypnotize you and question you, as Mateo did," Yadiro said, giving Lucius a strange look. "If I deem your intentions honourable, you will be permitted to stay with us until such time that you reach maturity. Under no circumstances will we entertain the idea of bringing a child into the fold."

"So…how long will that be?" Charlotte whispered.

"That depends," replied Yadiro, waving a hand for them to sit at the long table dividing the room. He came and sat at the head seat, with the girl on his right. "You will live with us, come to know us as we come to know you, learn our language. When you reach the age of eighteen, if you have displayed your trustworthiness, we will revisit your request. If you still wish to become one of us, it will be arranged."

"But what about now?" she exclaimed. "I'm a werewolf! You hate werewolves!"

"We hate werewolves attacking us," Mateo interjected, gliding to stand behind her. "During the full moons we'll lock you securely in a room where you can do no harm."

Yadiro motioned to one of the human servants and uttered a low command in Spanish; the young woman disappeared into the back room and came back carrying a tray loaded with goblets of wine, beer, and water, which she set onto the table in front of Lucius and Charlotte, the only two capable of consuming it. "Drink. I have ordered a meal prepared, and it should be ready shortly. When you've eaten, we will continue with the business at hand. For now, let us relax. Lucius, how is your family? It has been a long time since your last visit…."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It was evening by the time Lucius left the _sangrista_ mansion. He stumbled into the wood above, and Mateo grasped his arm to steady him before a nasty fall onto a tree log. "Too bad human eyesight is so frail," he commented casually.

Lucius turned to him, alone for the first time without any of the others around. Looking deeply into Mateo's pale blue orbs, he asked simply, "Will she be alright?"

"Of course she will," Mateo responded, wondering if he ought to be offended by some dark insinuation. "No one will hurt her unless she tries to harm one of us. Neither I nor Diro believe that will happen. As you've been informed, you, Henry, Harry, and Black may visit at any time if you care to check up on her."

"Perhaps you ought to give me a ring or something," Lucius mused aloud.

Mateo grinned mischievously. "Really, Lucius, we're family—and both married. I hardly think it appropriate."

Lucius wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. "Very funny. I meant as a sign to your cult, to anyone who doesn't know us, that you're the one who sent us."

"I know what you meant," Mateo answered, still smiling. He couldn't help being who he was, and that meant teasing his nephew now and then. "I haven't got one, all I've got is this." He fingered the delicate gold chain round his neck, with its serpent pendant…the one his father—Lucius' great-great-great-and-so-on-grandfather—had given his mother over three hundred and fifty years ago.

Because it was glaringly apparent that Mateo was reluctant to give up the jewelry, a fact Lucius wholly understood, he said, "I'll have rings made to resemble the necklace. I'll keep one and give one to Potter or Black. You tell your cult about it, so I don't find myself at the receiving end of a broken neck from someone who hasn't met me."

"Believe me, Lucius, you're far more likely to end up with a broken neck from someone who_ has_ met you," Mateo laughed, slapping the man on the back. Lucius flew forward and landed on his knees on a fallen branch from a nearby tree, and howled his indignation.

"Was that really necessary?" he growled, getting to his feet. He brushed off the dirt from his knees, trying to pretend it hadn't hurt. It was going to leave a bruise at best, and possibly a cut if it had struck his knee the wrong way. And it had likely damaged his spine as well.

"Sorry. I forget my own strength sometimes," Mateo apologized. He offered a hand, which Lucius slapped away.

"You're dangerous," he said gruffly, sulkily.

"Yeah…but you love me anyway."

"Lucky thing for you," Lucius pouted.

"So…see you next full moon when I come to do werewolf patrol?" asked the _sangrista_, raising his light brows.

Lucius nodded, giving his uncle a firm, reassuring pat on the back that came nowhere close to the wallop he'd endured. It was hard to stay cross with someone like Mateo. "Yes, I'll see you then. And I'll make sure the elves have some blood on hand for you. Give Tonia my best."

"And you to Narcissa and the children." Mateo watched him disapparate, then opened the trapdoor in the floor of the wood and walked back downstairs into his home.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Fenrir apparated outside the black tower-like structure serving as Lovegood's home, and commenced to pacing round the bushes in the distance. Where had that white-haired gent got off to? He'd not been seen for days, and it was becoming rather annoying. He growled and squatted down beside a large rock to pick at a pebble embedded in his foot. Maybe he ought to have worn shoes, only he so disliked those damned human conventions. If he could go naked all the time, he'd do so, but it would only draw attention to himself, which he could ill afford.

And then he smelled it. Smoke. He whipped his head toward the house, where a thin stream of black smoke trailed up the chimney in wisps that an ordinary person would not have been able to detect so readily. He smiled wolfishly. So, the wizard was at home after all, was he? Rising silently to his feet, he padded up to the window and ever so slowly peeked his head up over the sill. Sure enough, there was Xenophilius, bent over a large table strewn with all manner of gizmos and gadgets.

"Gotcha," Greyback whispered, baring his fangs.

He thought at first to knock down the door and barge in, but that was so conventional, so boring. The hunt was where the fun lay, and he had the prey in his sight; all he needed to do was go get it. With nary a sound, he circled the house, padding on all fours even though he'd not changed into werewolf form. Excitement stirred his heart, making it beat like a drum inside his chest. His eyes gleamed with the kind of hunger not satisfied by food. If he dared, he'd have laughed. Yes, he'd have his pack back, one at a time. First the cub Marcus, then he'd figure out how to get the rest of the pups.

Once he'd got out some of his energy, he approached the house again and peered into the window. Lovegood continued his tinkering, seemingly wholly oblivious to the werewolf's presence. All the better. Seeing the shock and fright in his prey's eyes was half the fun of the kill. _No, not kill_, he mentally corrected himself. He needed the man alive this time. Time to make his entrance.

From his jaunt around the house, he recalled a window high up on the south wall, so he headed in that direction. The walls being made of jagged stone, he discovered it not too difficult to find footholds and grips as he eased himself up, flattened against the stone, crawling toward his goal. He heaved himself in through the open window, melting over the sill and landing softly on the wooden floor with not even a thump to announce his presence.

He stood there getting his bearing, taking in the room…a bedroom. A doublewide bed covered in gaudy sheets and duvets—obviously Lovegood's—nestled against the rounded wall, jutting out into the room and taking up most of the space. A narrow cabinet served as a wardrobe in the far corner. It was covered in dusty perfume bottles and old hairbrushes; a silver-plated mirror set behind it glared his reflection back at him. Greyback stalked out into the hall from which another room sprang opposite him. Rail-less spiral stairs in the middle of the tower loomed ahead, not that he had any reason to fear, being surefooted as a matter of course.

Nevertheless, he tiptoed down, careful not to shuffle his feet or make any noise a human might perceive. On the second level he passed what looked to be a kitchen and a loo. He was almost there. His respiration rate increased significantly in anticipation. Below he heard Lovegood talking to himself, which didn't really surprise him; the old man was purported to be mad for a reason. He grinned and rubbed his hands in glee. Maybe he'd even make Lovegood write the ransom note to Luna himself; being a newspaper fellow and all, he was more accustomed to the proper turn of a phrase.

What the f—k? What was that smell—the scent of a different human? And why did he hear a second voice? He stopped halfway down and crouched to get a look through the spokes of the steps. Son of a bitch, there was another man in there with Lovegood! From the looks of him, another crackpot. He snarled and eased upward a few steps. Now what? He hadn't come this far to be bested by a lunatic and his weirdo friend.

Greyback slipped his wand from his pocket. He was a fair hand at dueling, and he'd taken on more than one at other times. Couldn't say he'd always won, but that was beside the point. He leaned in, took aim, and—_knock. Knock. Knock_. The front door rattled from the blows.

"I'm coming!" called Xeno, setting down an instrument and taking off the goggles that made him look like a blond grasshopper.

Greyback drew himself further up the stairs, cursing his luck. What was this, party central? Who in their right mind would want to hang around with this crazy old nutter and his peculiar companion? He had his answer a moment later when Arthur Weasley walked into the room. Greyback almost let loose an audible sigh of disgust, sat down, and stuck his feet between the bars for stability.

"Hello, Peragro. How are you?"

Peragro looked up from his invention, his lips pursed, his fingers playing nervously along the cords of the panel he held. "Hello, Arthur. I'm fine, thank you for asking." He dipped his head and mumbled something unintelligible as he picked up a wrench and walloped the metal slab in his hand.

Xenophilius gestured for Arthur to draw near. "We're working on an invention of great potential…I'm not sure what it has the potential for, but it seems a machine of this caliber must be used for some great purpose."

"What invention is that?" asked Arthur, glancing about for something that looked like it might be more than a pile of junk and broken appliances.

"An inter-dimensional travel device," whispered Xeno, getting in close. Even so, Greyback heard him quite well, and rolled his eyes.

"Ah, I see," Arthur replied softly, nodding and smiling politely. "At any rate, you asked me to keep you apprised of the Charlotte situation, so here I am." Greyback, hearing the name, cocked his ears and held his breath. "Sirius and Harry have given her permission to go to Spain. She's there now."

"Spain?" Peragro's head came back up. "My grandmother is from there. What part?"

"I-I don't really know," Arthur hedged, shrugging, palms up. Harry had said not to give too many details. "The interesting part is that she asked to be turned into a vampire."

"A vampire?" Xeno and Peragro said in unison.

"She what?" bellowed Greyback, shooting to his feet and lunging for the bottom of the steps. One foot, which had become stuck between the slats, twisted sideways and he lost his balance, to come tumbling down the stairs face first. He landed at the bottom in a heap, and looked up to find the three men surrounding him, wands drawn.

Thinking wasn't Fenrir's strongpoint, he'd always known that, but at the moment he had little option. _Think fast, think fast_. "Good afternoon," he said, waving his fingers like a poof at them. _Good one, Nancy boy, they'll believe you mean no harm_. "This isn't what it looks like."

"What does it look like?" inquired Arthur dryly. "A werewolf invading a private citizen's home?"

"Well yes, I suppose it could, maybe, resemble that," Greyback admitted, sitting up very slowly. "I was…looking for Charlotte, and now that I know where she is, I'll be on—"

Before he got out another word, Xenophilius zapped him with invisible ropes, binding him fast. He stepped forward and yanked the wand from the werewolf's grasp. "You're escaped from Azkaban. You're not going anywhere."

"You'll regret this, old man!" Greyback growled, struggling fiercely, no longer feeling the need to play nice. "When I get loose, I'll bite your head off! I'll bite your daughter's head off and take my cub back! I'll—"

Although he continued to shout, the others heard not a word, for Arthur had sent a silencing spell around the werewolf. Arthur turned to the others solemnly. "We'd best notify the authorities right away. Have you got any floo powder?" He peered into the jar on the mantle, which was empty, and had been for some time, it appeared.

"No, I keep meaning to buy some, but I've been occupied," said Xeno sheepishly.

"You could go to your house and send from there," offered Peragro. He meandered back to his table to resume his work as if nothing had happened. If Arthur didn't know better, he'd suspect the man was trying to be rid of him.

"Or send your patronus," said Xeno. Suddenly he went white and pointed behind Weasley.

"Good idea, I'll do that…" Arthur trailed off, turning to see what his friend was pointing at. His face froze in shock. Where was Greyback? He'd been there a minute ago! How could he have escaped? "Where is he?"

"Here." Fenrir stood up directly behind Peragro, who obviously hadn't seen him coming. The smell of fear on him made the werewolf want to bite into his throat. He grabbed the wizard round the neck with one arm and dragged him round the table. "Give me my wand!"

Lovegood tossed it to him and he caught it with his free hand. "How did you get free? I had you bound."

"You had a man bound. It doesn't work on a werewolf." He so enjoyed the stupid looks on their faces. "I'm sure you've read that I can change to wolf form at will."

"No, I can't say I have," said Arthur.

"No, I don't believe I have," said Xeno along with him.

"Oh, come on! They had to mention it in the paper when I escaped from prison!" Fenrir objected, feeling slighted and somewhat miffed.

All three men shook their heads, muttering disclaimers.

"That just figures, doesn't it?" griped Fenrir. "Try to wipe out muggles and mudbloods and the world writes about you forever, but use a real skill and you get squat. You humans make me sick." He poked his wand deep into the hollow at Peragro's throat. "Here's the deal: I'm going to kill him unless you get me Marcus. Got that, Lovegood?"

"I understand, but I can't comply," said Xenophilius in desperation. "Luna will never let him go—her husband will track you down and murder you for even demanding it!"

"Yeah, I'm scared," Fenrir answered with a yawn.

"I won't—we won't let you do this," said Arthur, pointing his wand very carefully. If he aimed it just right, he'd nick the wolf's shoulder and miss Peragro entirely. "Let him go."

"I agree with Arthur," Peragro said, bobbing his head, his pigtails swishing back and forth.

Greyback squeezed the man tighter, making him squeal, and began to drag him away from the others. "I guess I'll have to take him with me, then. Your back door is this way, as I recall from my surveillance."

"No! Don't go that way!" Peragro screamed, and in a sudden burst of strength fought with astounding vigor, loosening Greyback's grip enough to slide to the floor.

Arthur and Xenophilius shot at the same time; a _stupefy_ and a _homorphus_ charm crashed into Fenrir's chest and he sailed backward. He should have landed on the floor; he didn't. Arthur ran forward, eyes wide, mouth agape, twisting his neck to look for the werewolf. As Peragro scrambled out of the way, Xeno came forward and yanked Arthur back—hard.

"What are you—what happened—where—" Weasley stammered.

"He's gone. Step away, Arthur, unless you want to be caught up as well."

"What are you talking about? He disappeared, but he wasn't apparating…" Arthur murmured, looking wholly bewildered.

From his position on the floor, halfway across the room, Peragro, piped up, "He went through the portal…the one in my inter-dimensional travel device. It's there." He pointed at nothing directly in front of Arthur. "We were about to try it once more when you got here."

"So where did Greyback go?" asked Arthur.

Peragro bit his lip, then he shrugged one shoulder. "We're not sure. There are an infinite number of dimensions, all parallel to our own. He could be in any one of them."

"And no, we can't get him back," Xeno replied before Arthur had the chance to ask. "We haven't figured that part out, that's why we were working on it."

Arthur leaned heavily on the wall, letting this sink in. Greyback had disappeared into _another dimension_. That was one phrase he had never in a million years envisioned himself believing…or saying…or thinking. And yet, was it really so different from what the Veil had done before Lucius Malfoy destroyed it? People had gone in, never to return, except Malfoy and his wife, but that was a whole other story. The werewolf wouldn't be back to bother anyone in this world…unless these two inventors kept at their work, which would be highly unlikely once the Ministry found out that they'd rid the world of Greyback once and for all. This device would be taken away and held in a secure facility.

"I've got to notify the Ministry," he said at last, his voice tight and rasped. "Is he dead…Greyback?"

"I don't know," answered Xenophilius. "For the sake of whoever else may be in that dimension, I hope so."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Greyback awoke, one hand going to the pain in his chest. Whatever those wizards had hit him with had been pretty powerful. He hated to open his eyes, to find himself in the dreaded prison again. Why did it smell so nice? Like flowers and fresh grass. He pried open one eye, then the other popped open automatically at the shock. Gobsmacked, he sat up and reached a hand to the clump of purple and blue flowers beside his head. They were real. The grass he'd been lying on was real. The field he was alone in was real.

He jumped to his feet, realizing he still grasped his wand in his hand. That was odd. Why had they dumped him here in the middle of nowhere and left him his wand? Why had they not sent aurors after him? Unless they wanted to hunt him as he'd hunted so many in his time. It would only be justice…but surely they knew it was foolhardy to let him keep his wand, to fight back.

He gazed about him carefully, studying the terrain. He had no idea where he was. The temperature was mild, balmy even, too warm for England. And the flora didn't look like what he was used to. Birds flew overhead. What the hell? He'd never seen a bird that size before, and it was no muggle flying ship! And the shriek it delivered sent chills down his spine.

Needless to say he was beginning to worry. Nothing about this felt right. Perhaps if he walked far enough he'd find a village or town and find out what was going on before the aurors caught him. If he knew where he was, he'd stand a better chance of going where he wanted to go. He observed the sun and shadows for a minute or so, then turned to set out west.

He'd walked no more than a hundred meters or so, to a patch of trees, when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He whirled on the presumed auror, wand level, and nearly pissed his pants. A baby T-rex growled and swiped at him with its tiny front paws.

He backed up in a daze as understanding hit him in a tidal wave. Inter-dimensional travel device….it hadn't been bullshit after all, had it? It had sent him_ here!_ He backed up slowly, wildly searching for the mama creature. He'd really rather not make her cross, as he wasn't sure what kind of magic worked on huge, honking dinosaurs!

He sensed it before he smelled it, and smelled it before he felt its hot breath on his back. Greyback turned gradually about, took one look at the animal towering over him, and cried, "Oh, crap!" as he broke into a run.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

EPILOGUE

"Would you like to be a part of this, Minerva?" Severus stood just inside the doorway to her office, expressionless as usual. The part that seemed out of place was the air of expediency in his posture, as if he couldn't wait to be on his way for an important occasion.

Minerva looked up from her desk, at first slightly surprised to be asked; her face rapidly hardened into resolute determination. Now that she knew what this meant, how could she pass it up? She stood up, smoothed down her emerald green robes, and answered tightly, "Yes, Severus, I'd like that very much."

He gave a single nod and turned as if to go, though he lingered in the doorway waiting for her. She rounded her desk, hesitating for a split second to glance back at the wooden unicorn on her desk. It reminded her of the Tom she'd known in school, the boy who'd saved her life, the boy who'd taught her to widen her horizons by creating her own charms, the boy… She sighed. Those days were gone, those possibilities had disappeared decades ago with the passing of any humanity Tom Riddle had possessed. Still, it gave her a warm feeling in her heart each time she gazed at the trinket. Taking a deep breath, she followed Snape out and down the hall.

They trudged together across the grass in the direction of Hagrid's hut, to a spot on the grounds that appeared to have been charred and then covered over with a light dusting of dirt. Snape stopped abruptly. "Here is good." He signaled up the hill to the girl who'd been watching them from the school, and she ran down the hill to meet them.

Out of breath, eyes shining, Therese came to a halt beside the adults and looked at the ground. "No one will see?" she inquired. She glanced at the deputy Headmistress, evidently wondering why she was here.

"No one will know what we are doing," Severus assured her, even as he noted the flash of suspicion in her eye at the sight of Minerva. The child had no idea what relationship Minerva had to Tom Riddle, and he'd keep it that way. All the other students had already returned home for the summer holidays, and Hagrid had been sent on an errand that should take up the afternoon. They were alone. If one of the staff happened to notice smoke coming from this direction, they'd presume Hagrid to be behind it. His intense gaze pierced the girl. "Professor McGonagall is here as a witness. Are you absolutely certain you feel no more compulsion to read the diary?"

"I'm sure," Therese replied, nodding. "I'm so tired of reading it; I only keep doing it to be sure he won't come back, like you told me. I think I know the whole thing by heart."

"Alright then."

It wasn't as though he had to trust her word completely, after all—the Marauder's Map had been showing her name as Therese Hawbecker for months now. Severus reached into the pocket of his black over-robe, which while comfortable in the castle felt stiflingly hot out here in the sun. He withdrew the stack of diaries he'd been keeping in his office all year, fanned them out and held them up for all to see, then dropped them unceremoniously into a heap on the blackened earth. He held out a hand toward Therese, palm up.

Following his lead, Therese took her lone diary from her own pocket and handed it to him; he opened it briefly to ascertain whether it was, indeed, the diary and not a fake. He hadn't really anticipated trickery, but one could never quite be sure. Yes, he recognized it as one of the set; The writing was unmistakable. Severus tossed the book onto the pile with the rest.

He pointed his wand at the pile, then paused. "Therese, would you like to do the honours?"

The girl smiled, genuinely not expecting this. "Can I?"

Severus gave a curt nod, and she removed her wand, took careful aim, and said clearly, "_Incendio_." Instantly the stack of tiny books burst into flame.

As they watched them burn, the flames lapping at the leather covers and stealing inside to the delicate parchment, each was lost in thought. Severus stared at the edges of the books as they crisped and twisted in the heat. Such small objects, so seemingly innocuous, yet they'd caused so much trouble—and without Voldemort even meaning for it to be so. His lips pursed in the precursor to a smirk or a sneer, he wasn't sure which he wanted. Voldemort had reveled in producing chaos…he'd have been tickled pink to know of the destruction his diaries had nearly wrought. On the flip side, he'd have been livid to see his possessions burned in a muggle bonfire, a slap in the face to him as the most powerful dark wizard ever to live. Severus' lips arched in a satisfied sneer.

Minerva, ever conscious of the love she'd once borne for Tom Riddle, continued her internal self-condemnation. She ought to have tried harder to save him, she ought to have fought her prejudices against Slytherins…yes, she admitted it after so many years. Despite her vocal protestations, despite her attempt to be fair in the classroom, she had been inculcated in her early life and continued to nurture bigotry where that House was concerned. It was something she needed to work on. Maybe with the passing of these old articles of Tom's, she might let pass her old animosities as well.

Therese watched the fire with a sense of relief. She hadn't known Tom Riddle or Voldemort, she knew only what had been written long ago by a student her age, a brilliant boy who was emotionally crippled by his lack of parents, lack of love. He'd built a shield around himself to deal with it, and in doing so had come to believe it was preferable to allowing another inside. He could lie to anyone, even to himself about it, but he couldn't lie to her; she'd felt what he felt, and seen what he'd seen. She pitied him, and even as she thought it, she knew he'd despise her for her pity. If only he hadn't grown up to be such a horrible person…

They remained there, silently watching the diaries turn from brown leather to charred, as the pages curled and withered under the licking flames. Time seemed to stand still; nothing else entered their minds except the sight before them, until at last the diaries were nothing but a pile of grey-black ash. When the last of the fire had burned off, Severus stepped forward and ground the ashes under his feet. Therese broke out of her trance to jump in and stomp along with him until nothing remained that remotely resembled a diary or book of any kind.

Her shoes and stockings covered in soot, she looked up at him and said softly, "It's over."

Severus looked down at her, noting the relief in her eyes, the same relief he felt in his own heart, and he answered her quietly, "Yes. It's over."

(**Author's note**: And so it ends. While the story itself is technically done, there will follow at least three more chapters of 'Snapshots', scenes showing what happens to our characters in the following months and years. They will be attached to this story, so no need to look for them elsewhere. I hope you have enjoyed it, and thank you to all my readers, and most especially to my reviewers. If you'd like to be notified of any stories I write in the future, please put me on Author Alert. Thanks!)


	89. Snapshots Part 1

17

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 89 (Snapshots Part 1)

**April 2001**

"Aline! Pssst!"

Aline turned her head, then did a full circle, searching for the person calling her. Amidst the throngs crowding Diagon Alley this particularly fine day, it was hard to see past her own nose. She edged to the periphery and began looking more closely, which turned out to be unnecessary when Jorab tapped her arm lightly and came round her smiling.

"Hi, Aline. Fancy meeting you here."

"Yes, indeed. I was headed for the apothecary shop for some herbs we're low on." Why was she babbling about herbs? He didn't care. "How is everything?"

"Spectacular…and I owe a lot of that to you," he added, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, making him difficult to hear in the busy street. He reached into his pocket and drew out a bag that jingled suspiciously like galleons, which he weighed in his hand as he spoke. "I carry this with me all the time in case I see you. I was afraid to make a special trip to give it to you—you know, in case Liv started asking questions."

The final payment for healing the Longbottoms. Aline had forgotten all about the payment, which she hadn't wanted to begin with. "Rab, I really don't—"

"I know," he interrupted, smiling. The smile touched his eyes as well; Aline hadn't recalled ever seeing him look so happy, except at his wedding. "I'm not an idiot, I realize you aren't keeping the money I've been paying you. Nevertheless, I owe you for all your hard work and efforts…and for my peace of mind. After all I've done, it's heartening to see something returned to a state of goodness, you know?"

She nodded, not really sure what to say, and pretty sure she wasn't expected to say anything.

"Anyway, here it is. Shall I eliminate the middle man and give it directly to St. Mungo's?" He lifted it up to eye level and jingled it again.

"Why don't you do that? I'm just very glad the Longbottoms are well again, and Neville has his parents back. It's all I wanted."

Rabby slid the pouch back into his pocket, then he smiled at her again. "Thank you again. If you don't mind, how are the Longbottoms doing?"

"Fine and dandy from what Neville says," Aline answered. "He used to be so quiet, but now shutting him up has become a problem. He can't stop talking about his parents…."

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"No, Mum, the other one. Didn't you say you excelled at Herbology in school?" Holding his trowel in one hand and a flat of flower seedlings in the other, he knelt in the newly tilled earth and scowled at his mother. This was the third time she'd given him the wrong plant.

Alice wrinkled her nose at him, a nose sullied by a smear of dirt. "I said I excelled at Herbal Healing. There's a difference, you know." She set down the tree sapling she'd been offering him and picked up the adjacent tree. "The herbs I worked with were generally already picked, even ground up or dried. I never planted them myself."

"Well, it's time you learned." He guided the roots into the freshly dug hole and began scooping handfuls of earth over them. "Bring me the watering jug, will you? I think it needs to be filled."

"Why don't you use your wand? _Aguamenti_ is perfect for this," she replied, steadfastly remaining in her spot.

"Oh, I didn't think of that," he admitted, blushing. Madam Sprout insisted he do everything the old-fashioned muggle way in order to acclimate him to hard work, and he'd become acclimated quite well. He took out his wand and recited the charm; water poured from the tip of his wand onto the earth, where it soaked in leaving the area darker than the rest.

"Look at this garden!" Frank said, strolling out onto the patio to survey the work done by his loved ones. Several new fruit trees graced the furthest section, and a whole new flowerbed with a dazzling array of colours stretched through the yard and wound around the walk. "It's absolutely beautiful. You two did a wonderful job!"

"Neville did a wonderful job, honey. I'm pretty much here to observe and get yelled at," Alice teased, poking a finger at Neville's rib.

"Sorry if I was harsh, Mum. I love you." Neville reached over to peck her on the cheek.

"You weren't harsh, darling, I'm teasing you." She pulled him into a hug, something he never seemed to grow weary of, and she certainly didn't get tired of it. As anticipated, he leaned into her embrace and grinned.

"It's almost time for supper," Frank piped up. "Time to get washed up. I made that berry pie you like, son."

"Come on, Neville," his mother prompted as she headed for the house. She stopped and turned, waiting for him.

"You go on, Mum. I'll finish this and be right in."

As she walked away, he watched her, smiling. Never in his life had he dreamed he'd get to plant a garden with his mum, yet here he was, while his father made them dinner. And he'd never thought his dad could be such a good cook! Of all the ways over the years that he'd pictured life with a real family, this hadn't been it…and he couldn't be happier.

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**June 2001**

"No, don't touch that!" Blaise screamed, frantically racing across the room at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, flailing his arms comically.

Goyle dropped the item back onto the shelf; it teetered and fell off, to thump on the floor with a squeak, bounce a few times, and come to a halt. He gaped in terror, waiting for it to explode. Blaise casually picked it up, squeezed it to elicit a loud squeak, and thrust it back in its spot.

"I'm just messing with you," Blaise said, smirking. "It's what they call a 'rubber duckie'. Muggle kids use it in the bathtub to play…something. I'm not clear on that yet. It's not got any curses on it, though. Now these—" He waved an arm imperiously at a full wall of jumbled items, "—are cursed or presumed so. Don't touch them." He looked Goyle full in the face and repeated, "Don't touch them."

"He won't," Pansy assured him. She looped her arm through her husband's and pulled him along the shelf. "What's this?"

The three of them peered at a small, ovalish cream-coloured device that fit perfectly into Blaise's hand when he picked it up. At one end of the object were two smooth tabs that clicked when he touched them; the one on the left had a fingerprint-size indentation. On the underside was a hole where a ball was trapped inside; he poked at it and moved it with his finger, showing them how it worked. From the front, a long white cord trailed on the floor.

"It's called a 'mouse'." At the mocking looks the other two threw him, he grimaced and said defensively, "I didn't name it! I guess muggle brats don't know the difference between real vermin and a toy, so this is their idea of fun. I don't know."

"Why don't they make it furry and soft like a real mouse?" asked Goyle.

"Didn't I just say I don't know?" exclaimed Blaise. He threw the mouse back onto the shelf beside a broken computer speaker. "Now _this _is interesting!"

He picked up a yellow, square, plastic upright board with six rows of holes spanning seven columns and brought it to his desk. From a pouch attached magically to the gameboard he dumped out numerous disks that looked like checkers, red and black.

"You put the disks in here, taking turns. It's like tic-tac-toe, only you have to get four in a row instead of three," Blaise explained self-importantly.

"Like Captain's Mistress," Goyle said, to the astonishment of the others. Noting the surprised visages, he grinned. "My dad taught me some stuff."

"Are we going to play?" asked Pansy, both apprehensive to be playing with muggle toys, and at the same time enthralled.

"Sure," replied Blaise. He swung himself round the desk and plopped into his chair. "Afterward, I can show you what we call 'bobble-heads'. We think they might be muggle deities…"

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**October 2001**

Wallace Marshal apparated to his boyhood homestead and stood there like a statue for a long time, simply staring at the devastation. His parents were long dead, the results of their hard work demolished, as evident in the carefully pruned trees now left to grow wild, the shrubs lining the front yard shaggy and unrecognizable. The house itself, once a small manor home, lay charred and broken, a blot on the land it had once proudly overseen.

Marshal blinked a few times, not quite comprehending. He'd not dared come home after escaping from Azkaban, not until now, and the scene made him physically ill. Who had done this, and why? His mother had never harmed anyone; to his knowledge, she'd had no enemies. When she died, who had taken it upon themselves to lay waste to her property? His eyes narrowed with a glint of hatred. Perhaps he'd take it upon _himself _to find out.

Finally overcoming inertia to move from his spot, his feet directed themselves through the long grass, round the hill out back to the workshop where his father had spent most of his adult life creating axes and swords, maces and polearms for collectors around the world. As a boy, Walden had worked alongside his father there, sweating beside him, working the magic that crafted the arms sought after worldwide, learning the trade. Kenneth Macnair had taught him how to finesse the metal into the way he wished it to go, he'd taught his son to use the weapons, to fight with them. Many times over the years Wallace had thought back on those days, missing them, regretting where he'd gone wrong. Regret changed nothing, though, did it? Things remained the way they were, and nothing he could say or do would erase what he'd done as a follower of Lord Voldemort.

With a single touch the decayed door crumpled inward and fell with a dusty crash at his feet. Wallace stepped inside. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the specks of dust floating everywhere. No one had been here in a very long time; those who had torched his house had not bothered with this old, presumably useless shack out back. In the middle of the room a forge stood empty and blackened, desolate. Familiar shelves lined one wall, although they'd buckled and dumped their cargo ages hence. He strode over to peer down at the disarray on the floor; bending down, he grasped the hilt of a half-finished sword and lifted it from the dirt and jumble of boards. Examination revealed that the blade was raw and dull, and the hilt lacked the trademark ornamentation, but it wouldn't take much work to complete it. Marshal wondered idly who his father had been making it for when he died.

Marshal crouched on his haunches, fondling the sword like a newborn. He had no family, no trade unless one counted being a butcher, no anything! Not even a home to go back to…but he deserved that, didn't he? He may not have burned any buildings, yet how many homes had he destroyed by murdering its occupants? He didn't deserve anything good; in fact, the only good he'd ever really done had been to bring criminals to justice—the justice rarely allowed by the court system. The irony wasn't lost on him.

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"Marshal, I told you—"

"I know, Malfoy. I'm not supposed to come here unless invited. I don't want anything, I just need to talk to you." Marshal waited on the porch of Malfoy Manor for Lucius to respond.

Lucius waved him in, obviously curious as to what the man had to say, and also a bit worried that it might include some trouble on the horizon. Trouble seemed to follow the ex-Death Eaters like a black cloud. Images of locusts came to mind. He led Marshal to the nearest parlour, closed the double doors, and sent up a silencing charm around the area. "Alright, what is it?"

Marshal spun on him and blurted without pauses for air, "Ophelia dumped me. We were doing so well, then I asked her to marry me and she got all wonky and said she wasn't ready to be married again, and she needed time to think."

Lucius gaped at him for a moment, totally not expecting that. At length he shook his head, his brows furrowing. "If you're looking for love advice, I'm not a therapist, Marshal."

The other wizard sighed heavily, shaking his head. "It's not that. I decided I needed a change, so I went to my dad's house."

"Your father's been dead for many years," Lucius reminded him, slightly confused.

"I know that! I'm not f—king stupid!" Marshal snarled back.

"No comment."

Marshal chose to ignore it. "I went home—the old home—and found it burned to the ground. Everything my parents worked for, all destroyed. I can't even claim the land to rebuild. I thought things could be different with Ophelia, I thought I could make a new life." He shook his head. "I don't have a past, now I've no future. It got me to thinking that I've never done a thing in my life that Dad would be proud of."

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, though I'm willing to bet it's somehow off topic," Lucius murmured, settling down in an overstuffed leather armchair. He indicated that Marshal should do the same, then he snapped his fingers for a house elf. "Bring us some wine. We may require food later, we'll see."

Marshal slumped onto the sofa like a boneless dummy. He waited till the elf had gone before saying, "When we were kids, your dad and mine were a lot alike. We got along great, I liked working with him. We had a lot of good times."

"So far I'm not seeing the similarity," Lucius observed dryly.

"Your dad used to beat you a lot, I remember that," Marshal answered, his eyes studying the floor. Malfoy had such fine rugs, so many fine things. "Mine whipped me on occasion, too. The last time was when I was seventeen, when I took the Dark Mark." He paused, and Lucius said nothing; the glint in his eye told all. "He knew it was a terrible mistake, just like yours did. He said up till then, all the choices I made were my own—good or ill. Now I had no choice, I belonged to Voldemort, and it broke his heart."

"Alright, I'm beginning to see where our fathers had something in common," Lucius admitted, sipping at the wine Sisidy had brought him. Abraxas' heart had been broken when his son gave up his freedom to follow Voldemort. He preferred not to dwell on those times, and he wished Marshal would get to the point and leave so he could get back to forgetting those times.

"And he was right," Marshal mumbled. He gulped down the glass of wine and set it on the coffee table. "After I graduated from Hogwarts, I worked with my dad in his shop for only a year before Voldemort decided I should work in the Ministry of Magic. And that was the end of it…he never looked at me the same."

"Forgive me if I sound callous, but where exactly are you going with this?" asked Lucius.

"The point is, your dad was always proud of you, wasn't he? He sure looked to be in public." Marshal's eyes pierced the other wizard.

Unable to meet the gaze for the shame building in his chest, Lucius bent forward to grasp the wine bottle and poured himself and Marshal another drink as he said, "I wish I knew the answer to that. He loved me, yes. To be honest, I believe he was ashamed of what I'd become."

Marshal offered a wry smile that Lucius fully understood. "Mine, too. It's too late to change what I did, but I guess I came to ask you if you've any idea what I can do to be the man he'd want me to be."

Lucius lifted his gaze to look directly at him now. How long had it been since the two of them had engaged in a real conversation between equals? Probably not since Hogwarts, and then only because Macnair was a year older, and he'd been the one to bring Lucius to the dark lord. Once he'd gotten past that, Macnair had taken his place behind the wealthy, more intelligent man. They'd had little in common aside from their misguided allegiance to the dark wizard, and had it not been for that, they'd have gone their separate ways decades ago. But were they really so different after all? In some ways, the answer had to be no. They both wanted their fathers to be proud of them, and in both cases it was too late. Or was it?

He cleared his throat. "Well, for starters you'd probably have to stop murdering muggles."

"Duly noted," said Marshal noncommittally.

"Does that mean you will?" demanded Lucius, recognizing all too well the evasive attitude he'd used with his own father so often.

"Why should I?" Marshal boomed, frowning. "It's not like I'm executing innocent folk; they're scum of the earth."

"You can't go about killing people!"

Marshal's frown deepened. "Yes, I can. I already do."

Lucius squeezed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache he felt coming on. "Let me rephrase: You _shouldn't_ go about killing people."

If possible, the frown deepened even further, combined with a puzzled expression. "I don't follow. I thought we were trying to redeem ourselves from our past. I'm housecleaning, doing the world a favour in the scheme of things."

Cognizant that Marshal simply could not fathom any morality to his actions, and that in truth Marshal's activities did make things safer for ordinary muggles, Lucius dropped it. "Moving on, you said you'd learned the trade of weaponry? I know firsthand that you're extremely skilled with a variety of weapons. Although you couldn't use your father's reputation or name, what's to stop you from taking up the craft again?"

"Yeah…yeah, I could do that. I could buy some property and build a shop with a forge. Dad would like to see me following in his footsteps." Marshal smiled for the first time since he'd arrived at the Malfoy home. "Will it make Ophelia love me?"

"I don't think…I don't know, Marshal," replied Lucius in exasperation. Why did everyone think he had the answers to all of life's problems? Sure, he was rich and powerful, had a loving, doting wife and three wonderful children, he was clever and resourceful…what was his point again? "She didn't say she doesn't love you, did she?"

"No. Just that she needed time apart to think."

"There you go. Work on changing your own life, and maybe things will fall into place." Lucius swilled down his wine in three big gulps. It did make dealing with such unpleasant situations more tolerable. "I've got a thought. Remember that muggle woman who jumped off the cliff, the one whose kids had been killed and you thought at first she was responsible? Why don't you find their murderer?" If he was going to kill anyway, it may as well be for a good cause, right?

Marshal shrugged indifferently. "It's not my job."

"You're a self-appointed vigilante!" exploded Lucius, barely stopping himself from hexing the other man. "You can be whatever the bloody hell you want to, including an investigator!"

"Geez, don't pop a vein," Marshal muttered. It wasn't a half-bad idea, actually. Dad would be proud of him for that, wouldn't he? He could never tell Ophelia, of course, so that part was moot. "I'll look into it; does that make you happy?"

"Ecstatic," Lucius grumbled in return. "If this is all, I have no more advice to offer, and I have work to do. Feel free to leave at any time."

Marshal got up and extended a hand, which Lucius shook. "Thanks, Malfoy. I don't know why people say you're such a prig."

He walked out, leaving Lucius staring after him. Who said he was a prig?

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**December 2001**

"Are you sure this is what we should do?" asked Theo, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other on the doorstep to the Mulciber home. He glanced at the hardwood door, then back at his fiancée.

"Theo, we don't have much of a choice," Jacinta answered back in a bare whisper. She swallowed and steeled herself before opening the door, took his hand in a grip so hard it made him wince, and dragged him inside.

"Jacinta, Theo, there you are! Come on in and sit down." Glenna smiled at the couple and gestured for them to make themselves at home. She hugged each before letting them perch next to one another on the sofa. "Jack, they're here!"

Jack Mulciber wandered in from the kitchen carrying a cup of steaming tea. "You kids want some tea?" When they mutely shook their heads, he set the cup on the counter and strolled in to sit on the arm of the chair Glenna had taken. "What's up?"

Jacinta averted her eyes to a portrait on the wall. She cleared her throat and said, "We need to change the date of the wedding. We want to move it up to February."

"What's wrong with June?" asked Glenna. "We've done most of the planning, and it's the traditional month; I thought you'd decided that's what you wanted."

"It was, Mum," replied the young woman, unable to look at her mother. She squeezed Theo's hand so hard the bones creaked; he whimpered and tried to surreptitiously pull free. "We just….we…"

Unable to bear the dance around the truth, Theo blurted, "She's pregnant."

At the shock of his sudden burst of honesty, Jacinta loosened her grip and he yanked his hand free, cradling it to his chest as he raised the other arm to fend off the blow coming from Jack, who'd jumped from his seat and swung a fist at the young man. He deflected the brunt of it, though he did receive a good wallop to the side of his head.

"I should have known I couldn't trust you with her!" Jack shouted. His fist balled for another onslaught.

"Daddy, stop it!" Jacinta sprang from the couch in front of Theo. "You know he won't fight you back. It's not his fault; we were both willing."

"Didn't either of you think about your reputation?" he demanded.

Glenna sighed as she hauled her murderously-glaring husband back to her side. In a disappointed tone she said, "Honey, we talked about this way back when you two got engaged. You told me you had agreed to wait till the wedding."

"We did, but—I love him, Mum. He loves me. You know how hard it is to be abstinent. We've been…making love…almost since we got engaged." Looking very much like Glenna at the moment, she sighed and leaned back as if exhausted. "I thought you'd understand, considering you were preggers when you married Dad."

"I do understand. That's why I ask if you couldn't wait, why weren't you at least more careful?" Glenna inquired.

"We were," Theo ventured, trying not to look at Jack while simultaneously peering at him from the corner of his eye to avert another attack. "I bought muggle condoms because Professor Snape said that contraceptive spells can damage the witch's internal organs."

"Severus knows about this and you're still alive?" Jack exclaimed, eyes growing to the size of his still-clenched fists as he stared at Theo.

"No, Papa doesn't know," Jacinta murmured. "Nobody does, except you. Somewhere along the way one of the condoms must have failed."

Jack shook his head as he heaved an angry breath. "I figured something like this would happen. We were too lenient with you."

"At least Theo knows he's the father, which is more than you knew with Mum," Jacinta shot back.

Jack got up again, this time shaking his finger at the girl. "That is not called for, young lady! Show your mother some respect."

"It's the truth," she replied softly, though she didn't yield ground, her blue eyes locked with his. "How can either of you lecture me?"

"Keep it up, Jacinta. I've never laid a hand on you, but I'm this close to turning you over my knee." He held up his hand, thumb and index finger mere centimeters apart.

Startled and discombobulated, the young witch sputtered, "Papa wouldn't let you."

"I wouldn't let you," Theo broke in, standing up and moving in front of his fiancée.

Jack delivered a withering look at the wiry boy he could snap like a twig without half trying before returning to his daughter. "Snape's not here. And don't think he's gonna be doing cartwheels when he finds out." He noted he'd got a good shot in when the girl paled.

"All of you stop it! Just stop!" Glenna shouted. Everyone in the room froze. "I am certainly not one to cast stones; what's done is done. We've got to decide what to do now. Jack, shouting at our daughter is not accomplishing anything."

Jack hesitated to consider, then nodded in acknowledgment. He turned and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Glenna asked.

"I think it's time Theo's parents hear what he's been up to," Jack responded solemnly. As if he'd forgotten something, he crossed the room and grasped Theo by the bicep, dragging him to his feet amid muffled protest. "I can guarantee you that Nott won't be thrilled at the prospect of keeping Snape from mutilating his son, but he's got to be warned. Let's go!" So saying, he continued on to the door with the young man following like a defeated puppy. Once outside the door, he disapparated with Theo in tow.

Jacinta, mouth slightly agape, watched them go, then turned to her mother in desperation. "Mum, Papa won't kill Theo will he? We didn't do anything _he_ didn't do! I need Theo!" Putting her face in her hands, she burst into tears.

"Sweetie, calm down." Glenna came to sit beside the woman on the couch and placed an arm round her. Evidently the pregnancy hormones had begun to kick in already. "Severus may be angry that Theo disregarded his warnings, but he loves you very much. Although he won't say so, he loves Theo as well. He won't kill the father of his grandchild."

Aside from that, all bets were off. She _hoped_ Severus would respond more maturely than Jack had. She'd have to go with Jacinta to deliver the news; Severus couldn't very well throw a tantrum when faced with the same situation he'd been part of almost twenty-three years ago. Hopefully….

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"Severus? Did you hear what we said?" Glenna leaned forward in her chair, examining his face.

"Papa, say something," Jacinta prodded, cuddling close to hug him. Experience had taught her that he responded well to expressions of affection from her; this seemed like a very opportune time to get on his good side.

Stony faced, Severus merely blinked slowly a few times before turning his face to his daughter and uttering, "Are you feeling well, Jacinta? Do you require a nausea potion?"

"I'm fine, Papa. I don't feel sick at all," replied the girl in a bemused tone. This was going so much more smoothly than she'd ever dreamed possible. Maybe it was a dream, and the real nightmare was to come. "You're not cross?"

"Should I be? My daughter is giving me a grandchild." He folded his arms about her thin frame, and looked over her head at Glenna. "I take it the wedding is being moved up?"

"Yes, to February," answered Glenna. Her brows dipped, and her mouth twisted ever so slightly. "Jacinta, why don't you go join Theo at the Nott home. He may need your alliance to keep your dad or his parents from crushing him."

"Okay, Mum." Jacinta smiled brightly, the relief on her face making her glow. She gave Severus a kiss on the cheek and scampered from the room and out of the house. "Love you, Papa!"

Glenna stared at her as she left, and waited till the door slammed shut, then she whirled on Severus with a glare that bespoke mountains. "You may deceive Jacinta because she wants to be deceived, but you don't fool me, Severus Snape! You had better not be planning on taking any action against Theo!"

The corner of his mouth quirked into a sneer. Glenna never had been one to keep her thoughts to herself. "That wayward little bastard has got our daughter up the duff, and you're defending him? I confess, I'm rather surprised you're not on the warpath yourself."

"Are you serious? You did the same thing—_we_ did the same thing—and we were younger than they are," Glenna said, even as she moved to position herself in his way lest he head for the door. "They've been together for over three years, did you really think they'd remain chaste all that time?"

"Notwithstanding that I warned Nott to keep it in his pants, I just assumed he had the sense God gave a goose. Then again, given his parentage, I should have realized he'd slip up sooner or later. I should have put a stop to it before they got serious." Severus made to push past her, and she held her ground.

"You're not going to hurt him, Severus. He's a good man, and he loves Jacinta very much; she loves him, and now she needs him." When he feinted right, she jumped aside to block him, then swung back to prevent him scurrying round her other side.

Severus halted, lips pinched. "Why draw this out?"

"Why do you feel it necessary?" she countered.

"Because if I don't do anything, he'll never believe my threats again!" Snape barked.

"And why do you need to threaten him?" Glenna persisted. "He's not your student any longer. He's going to marry Jacinta, and he's going to be a good husband to her—and a good father to their child."

"My point precisely," retorted Severus. "What if he decides that he wants to cheat on her, or becomes abusive? Am I supposed to stand by and allow it?"

"I'd kill him myself if that happened," Glenna replied nonchalantly, albeit the sincerity in her eyes was evident. "I don't think it will. Jacinta is no cringing flower, she will not tolerate abuse in any form. Or did we not train her right?"

Hardly able to argue with that, Snape merely intensified his pout. Jacinta was very much like her mother and father—she didn't take crap from anyone, even those she loved. Nor was she easily swayed to do what she did not want to do. In light of this fact, he had to suspect she was instrumental in initiating physical relations between the couple, and Theo, being a horny young man in love, could hardly be blamed for taking the bait. It was simply a matter of odds and time before the young woman turned up preggers. Still, he'd warned Theo, and the boy had ignored it…then again, when _he_ had been a boy, would he have listened if someone told him not to indulge himself with Glenna? Not likely, even under imminent pain of reprisal.

"So I ought to let him off scot free?" he asked peevishly. It rankled in a strange way.

"No, you can make your disapproval known—you're good at that, with the glares that make your firsties wet themselves. Have an amiable chat with him, make him apologize without ever touching him, and he'll still fear you." Then she smiled, the same way she used to smile when Severus talked of hating Sirius Black or James Potter. "Anyone who knows you even a little bit knows that you will avenge Jacinta if he truly wrongs her. You don't need to threaten him, it's understood."

Severus paused to consider. He honestly could find no flaw in her argument. Despite his protestations, he liked Theo Nott and believed he was good for Jacinta; he didn't enjoy the idea of harming him. If he attacked Theo, everyone would be on his arse—Jacinta, Glenna, even Aline. And it wouldn't help in any event, since Jacinta would still be pregnant, and her reputation would still be tarnished. On the other hand, if he merely made it plain to the young man that he was on the receiving end of a merciful reprieve, he'd maintain his fearsome status and not have to deal with any fallout, while Theo got the message loud and clear. That option was beginning to look very appealing.

"Fine. For Jacinta's sake, I won't hurt him," he said magnanimously, sighing like a martyr. Now he'd have to figure out how to initiate an 'amiable chat' without sending the boy running for the hills. Honestly, this 'pretending to be nice' nonsense was hard work!


	90. Snapshots Part 2 of 5

13

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 90 (Snapshots Part 2 of 5)

**January 2002**

The door creaked open…or it seemed to do so, though the sound itself was absent. It opened so slowly, so laboriously that one would expect to find a decrepit caretaker on the other side, scarcely able to push aside the wooden object to poke his half-dead face through the slight crack. Sirius did indeed twitch just a tad when Winky's nose peeped round the corner at knee level, her mouth set in a firm, disapproving pout.

"What does you want?" she squeaked at him.

"I'm Sirius Bl—"

"Winky knows who you is," she interrupted, scowling outright now. "Did you brings hideous Kreacher elf?"

"No, I didn't," he replied, puzzled. He wasn't used to elves behaving strangely—except the psychopath Kreacher, of course.

Winky's face softened a touch, sympathy flooding her golfball eyes as she nodded her bulbous head. "Is you running away from stupid Kreacher elf? Winky understands."

"No," Sirius repeated, still not quite sure why he was being interrogated. He added, "Not that I'm not tempted. He's bat shit crazy."

"So true," sighed Winky, letting the door swing inward a bit more. "Why is you comes?"

"I want to talk to Snape."

Winky stared up at him, countenance uncharacteristically vacant for an overemotional house elf. She blinked a few times as if waiting for him to be more specific. When nothing was forthcoming, she inquired, "Mistress or Master Headmaster Snape?"

"Headmaster," said Sirius. Even using that word in conjunction with Snivellus made his skin crawl. Never in a million lifetimes would he have thought Snape could end up running Hogwarts! What had this world come to?

Belying the notion that she was in any way infirm, Winky slammed the door in his face so hard it rattled on the frame and made him flinch. Okay, he'd only _thought_ the bit about Snape, right? Yes, he was certain he'd not spoken it aloud, so what was the nutty elf upset over? It didn't matter; this was probably for the best, anyway. So what if Snape had helped Aline in healing the Longbottoms—his part had been miniscule in the scheme of things. So what if he made Wolfsbane for all the werewolf children, and had tried to modify the formula for Charlotte—he'd also encouraged her to run off and be a vampire. So what if he'd done a lot of things to make society better; he was a wanker and always would be.

Ignoring the voices of Harry and Alice and Frank nagging in his mind, urging him to do the right thing, Sirius turned to go, and was halted when the door swung open once again, this time with a large shadow falling over the porch from the illumination inside. Severus stood silhouetted in the light.

"Yes?" Ah, that drawl that Sirius so despised.

Sirius spun round gradually, lest Snape think him about to strike. He wasn't here to fight, after all. "Snape," he said by way of greeting.

"Black," returned the other impassively.

"I'm not here to visit," Sirius began preemptively, starting to question anew whether he ought to have made the effort at all. "In fact, it makes me kind of sick to come here at all."

"If you're going to vomit, kindly do so in the yard," Severus said, indicating the grass beyond the porch. "If you've something to say, spit it out, then get out."

"This isn't easy for me, you know!" Sirius snapped.

"I'm given to understand that things involving concentration and coherence generally do perplex you," Severus answered smoothly. He crossed his arms, waiting.

"You're such a snarky bastard."

Snape graced him with an even stronger version of his piercing, blank stare that Black found both annoying and unnerving. Didn't this prat have any emotion at all? At length Sirius said, "As enticing as it may be, I didn't come here to exchange arguments or insults with you."

_Why fight a losing battle, is that it?_ Severus smirked to himself. In a battle of the wits, Black was practically unarmed. "Please enlighten me, Black. Why did you deign to come here?"

"I wanted to…" Sirius cleared his throat and looked away. He could do this. He was a Gryffindor, noted for bravery. He cleared his throat again and forced himself to look at Snape. "…apologize." There, he'd done it, he'd choked it out!

Snape's brows went up a smidge, his senses on alert. "What have you done this time?"

"Not now," Sirius said, realizing what the other wizard was thinking. "A long time ago, back when we were in school. Don't look at me like that! You gave as good as you got!"

"Unusual demonstration of remorse, but I'll consider the source." Severus stepped back over the threshold and started to close the door while saying, "If that's all you have to say, goodnight."

Sirius stuck his foot in the crack, effectively blocking the door from closing. With a disgruntled snort, Severus wrenched it open once more. His wordless glare may as well have screamed, 'What the bloody hell do you want, you irritating shit!' There was, after all, a limit to his forbearance.

Given a second opportunity to speak, Sirius hurried on, "I did a lot of things that were, in retrospect, stupid and childish. I can not honestly say I regret those—"

Impatience showing like a forest fire on the horizon, Severus snarled, "If you've a point other than the one on top of your cavernous skull, would you get to it?"

Talking over him, Sirius continued, "—because you got us as much as we hexed you." He paused, and in the sudden quiet it felt eerie. He licked his lips, gathering his courage again. It didn't seem right, and yet what could be more right than to atone for this one horrendous act? _ But this is Snape_, his brain defied him. He ignored his brain. "The Shrieking Shack. I noticed some time back that it was gone, and Harry told me you'd had it torn down."

"Nearly dying twice in a place tends to sour a person on it, I'm afraid," Severus drawled, regaining his composure, expecting Black to break into some spiel about Snape deserving everything he got. "Had you planned to make it into a shrine?"

"I know you believe I'm just a jerk—"

"Actually, that's one of the more generous things I think about you, but do go on," Severus interrupted calmly.

"You think I don't consider what I do, that I never stop to contemplate what's gone on in the past, but you're wrong," Sirius said defiantly. He managed to rush out the rest of his thought before Snape could get in a dig about being surprised that he understood and correctly used the word 'contemplate'. "I admit that because of my…ill-begotten prank, I may be…partially responsible…for your feelings about werewolves."

"Partially?" Severus repeated incredulously.

"The point is, even though you're scared shitless of them—"

"I am not!"

"—you continue to make the Wolfsbane for them; you even went to Lovegood to get information to track down Greyback. Harry said you and Malfoy were going to try bringing him in." Sirius simply could not compel his mouth to say that such an act took guts, although in his heart he freely conceded it, and had it been almost anyone else in the world he'd have sent his congratulations.

Severus stared at his foe, wondering why on earth he'd dropped by. There hadn't been a lucid remark or decipherable train of thought in the whole conversation, at least not in the part coming from Black. Perhaps he was drunk. He sniffed lightly in Sirius' direction. Indeterminate. "As much as it enthralls me to waltz down memory lane with one of my lifelong enemies, I've more pressing things to do." _Like clip my toenails, or watch the grass grow._ "Goodbye."

Once more he tried to shut the door, and Sirius stayed it with his hand, his words stumbling from his mouth as fast as he could spew them out.

"I came to say I'm sorry. I don't like you, I never will, but that doesn't change the fact that I did a horrible thing to you when we were kids, and I'm sorry." With that, Sirius turned tail and bolted from the porch.

Severus stood frozen in his spot like a statue, gaping after him, too shocked to do anything but watch him flee. Sirius Black had actually come to his door, stood up to his face, and apologized for trying to kill him all those years ago. As that was highly implausible, perhaps a simpler explanation would be that he'd died…or he was hallucinating. He wasn't quite sure how he ought to react. He'd never anticipated such an act—ever—and in all likelihood this wasn't even really happening. He reached down and pinched himself hard on the wrist. Yes, it hurt; he was awake. And alive. Aline was not going to believe this. No one was going to believe this…

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**February 2002**

"I hope once you're married and have your own baby, you'll still have time to play with your brothers." Aline glanced up from the floor where she was building a block fort with Aidan. Jacinta smiled back at her and stopped swinging Adriel in circles by his arms as he squealed in joy.

She let the toddler down onto the floor and planted a kiss on top of his shock of coal-black hair before he plopped onto the floor next to his brother and grabbed the block from his hand. "I will. Always. I love these little guys as much as I love my other brothers and sister."

"I can tell," Aline answered, nodding. "But it takes a lot of your time being a mother."

Jacinta crouched down beside her, her blue eyes—despite their deviation in colour from that of her sire—nonetheless giving off the same piercing quality as those of her father. "Is Papa alright now? Theo told me he came to have a 'little chat' with him, but he wouldn't say more. He was more upset by the baby news than he pretended, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Aline said, not willing to lie to the girl, especially when she'd see right through it. Jacinta was a clever young lady, not one to be fooled for long. "He didn't harm Theo, as I'm sure you know. It was all male posturing and subtle, unspoken threats—you know your father."

Jacinta broke into a chuckle. "Yes, I do. I hope when the baby is born he can start treating Theo like an equal."

Aline couldn't decide whether to laugh or snort, and both came out in a most unladylike fashion. Putting a hand over her mouth, she blushed while shaking her head and continuing to laugh. "I'm sorry, it's just that Severus was Theo's teacher. He's never going to see him as an equal, I'm afraid. Unless I'm grossly mistaken, which has been known to happen."

Jacinta gave a nonchalant shrug. "I guess it doesn't matter. In a few days we'll be married, and Papa will have to live with it."

"What do I have to live with?" asked Severus, striding into the room.

"Theo being your son-in-law," Jacinta said, rising to give him a hug.

He crushed her into an embrace. "Contrary to your misguided notion, I don't dislike Theo. In point of fact, I'm glad you found a man who loves you so much."

"Thanks, Papa, that means a lot." She pulled back to look up at him. "I've been thinking—and please don't be angry. It's just that Daddy is…I want you, but I…"

Severus' face pinched ever so slightly, reading between the lines of her hesitation. Stifling his disappointment, he said, "You want Jack to walk you down the aisle."

Aline, watching the scene from the floor, held her tongue. It wasn't her conversation, it wasn't her decision. Jack had raised Jacinta, had loved her as his own child her entire life. He loved her every bit as much as Severus did, and Jacinta loved Jack as much as she loved Severus. It had to be a hard choice. Although people in the community were now aware that Severus was her biological father, tradition suggested the man who raised her be the one to give her away. It was an uncomfortable position to be in.

"Yes—no!" replied the young witch, startling both Aline and Severus. "I want you both, you and Daddy. Can I do that?"

As surprised as his wife, Severus smiled down at his daughter, nodding slowly. "It's your wedding, Jacinta. If that's what you want, I have no complaints. I'm certain Jack will agree."

"I'm glad," said the girl from the folds on the chest of his robes. Unable to resist, she added teasingly, "Are you sure you don't want to invite your dear friend Sirius Black? We can make room for one more." Her body shook with the giggles that followed.

Severus rolled his eyes. He never should have told them! "Yes, go ahead and laugh, you little monster. One day your child will torment you as well, and I'll be the one laughing."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**July 2002**

"My feet are killing me," grumbled a wrinkled old woman in Bulgarian to her friend, a woman of the same age. She hobbled over to collapse onto a bench in Viktor Krum's parents' sprawling yard. All around them, hundreds of guests—young and old and middle-aged—swarmed about laughing and talking. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

The other witch plodded up and sat beside her, giving a disgusted shake of her head. "Too long standing in that church. At least we got invited to the wedding! Can you believe the nerve of that boy, not inviting the entire town?" '_That boy'_ being their great-nephew, Viktor.

Bilyana shook her head slowly and sagely, interspersed every so often with a tongue cluck. "Tradition means nothing to those youngsters anymore. Look at that bride!"

Together their eyes drifted to Hermione, strolling across the lawn with Viktor. She was clad in a long, lightweight, flowing white dress that sloped off the shoulders and trailed behind her on the grass; her red veil, sheer as it was, failed to hide the shapeliness of the witch beneath. Lace decorated the front of the dress to the waist, where she wore a red sash belt held together with an enormous buckle that spanned a good twelve inches across. It was at least a hand's width high, shaped like twin mother-of-pearl teardrops whose tails aimed toward the heavens, ringed by ornate silver gilding, supporting a small circle of elaborately carved silver between them.

Desislava studied the dress, her brows furrowing so deeply her face resembled a prune. "It's too modern, for sure, and the traditional costume is all but missing—except she did wear the buckle and red veil. And she's got the single braid…and I think I see coins in her scarf."

"That's a necklace…but it is made of coins," Bilyana conceded.

At her own wedding fifty years ago, she'd worn what was normal and expected: long white underwear to the calves, a white shirt to the knees, followed by a wool dress and apron, a small jacket covered by a full jacket, the belt buckle, the headdress—ah yes, the headdress. That alone had weighed in at enough to make her neck ache, not even counting the metal necklace, the wood to hold the veil in place, the kerchief with coins sewn inside, the heavy veil and wreath on top of it all, pinned securely in place. So it had felt like being bound up like a mummy—it was tradition, damn it!

"Viktor looks handsome," Desislava commented, pointing a withered hand. Indeed, Viktor did look quite fetching in his simple black suit and tie. "I'll bet he'd have been adorable in traditional outfit."

"Oh, yes, he would," agreed Bilyana.

She shushed the other witch so they could watch the customary breaking of bread by the newlyweds at the entrance to the house. Viktor's mother had taken a loaf of bread, a richly decorated round loaf used for nearly every Bulgarian wedding, and held it out to Viktor and Hermione; each took hold of one side, and then they pulled. The bread ripped in two, one half slightly larger than the other, and Viktor held it up in triumph while the guests cheered. _He_ was to be head of this household, if the bread had its way. Then Viktor's mother held out a dish of honey, into which the pair dipped their bread and took a bite, again to cheers.

"That their lives be sweet," Desislava said softly.

Long rows of tables had been set up in the lawn to accommodate the crowd, and soon they were overflowing with guests, among them Viktor's Quidditch team, and both the British and the Bulgarian Ministers of Magic. Dimitar Tanassov and his wife Luna sat with Marcus across from none other than Harry Potter and Ginny, who'd caused quite a stir upon his arrival in the church, and had he been capable of speaking Bulgarian he'd have had his ear talked off hours ago. As it was, those who spoke English, or even a little bit of English, had kept him busy all the way from the church to Viktor's house, walking the twisted and cobblestoned streets of the village. Ron and his fiancée Romilda Vane were seated beside them looking happy as could be.

At another table, Severus Snape sat rigidly with Aline, eyes roving every so often to Sirius Black, who'd made himself at home next to Harry. "Darling, I know Bayly convinced you to come, but was it really necessary? Look at all the guests. We'd have never been missed."

"Hermione invited me personally, Severus," Aline answered, smiling through gritted teeth. How many times had they gone over this? Twenty? Thirty? "She's my friend and was our co-teacher for a year. She specifically requested your presence, which I thought was a nice gesture to show you how much she appreciates all you've done for her, for other students, and for the wizarding world."

"But we—" he attempted feebly.

"Suck it up, Severus!" Aline hissed softly. "Let her have her day."

Sulking, he sat back and sipped at the wine. It was good, if a bit strong. This was all he needed, Miss Granger's wedding—scratch that, Mrs. Krum's wedding—setting the precedent for the rest of the Golden Trio. From the looks of it Ron Weasley would be having his own wedding soon, and if he knew the Weasley clan, they'd insist on his attendance if they had to track him down to hell and back and drag him in. And then there was Potter…he could probably endure that wedding without physical illness if he knew the dogfather wouldn't be there, but that was merely wishful thinking; Black would, in all likelihood, be the best man—or at the very least seated right up there with his spiky-headed godson. Severus sighed heavily. It was depressing.

At a table set in front of the others, Viktor and Hermione were seated with Bayly and Gloria, the 'best couple' so to speak. They'd stood as the only required witnesses to the marriage, and would be held in high esteem by the newlyweds for the rest of their lives. Bayly was talking animatedly in Bulgarian with Viktor and the two of them were practically rolling with laughter. Hermione, who understood what the men were saying, rolled her eyes and whispered something to Gloria, who blushed and elbowed her husband in the side.

Bilyana clucked her tongue again. "Look at that best man and matron! They're not even from our town; how could the boy's parents have been witnesses at Viktor's father's wedding? I'll tell you how—they couldn't!"

"Obviously that tradition means nothing here, either," bemoaned Desislava. "Though I heard him speaking Bulgarian, so he's not a complete loss. Do you see Harry Potter? I wish I could talk to him."

"Star struck, are you?" teased her sister. She took a gulp of the wine from one of the many bottles of wine scattered about the table. Suddenly she cried out in a crone's voice, "_Gorthivo!_"

Hermione lifted her eyes and smiled; she looked at Viktor, who grinned at her and said, "It is tradition. We must." So saying, he kissed her sweetly in front of all, and the throng burst into applause and laughter.

Once they'd separated, Hermione nudged him. "If I understand correctly, this is going to go on all night," she mused aloud.

"You understand correctly," he agreed, breaking into a laugh. "Do you mind?"

"Not really." Another cry for a kiss came in, and she happily obliged.

The night wore on with more drinking, snogging, and merriment. At some point Bayly got up to toast the newlyweds, and to lead them in their first dance as a married couple. They retreated to an open patch of grass where they and a multitude of others joined hands and began dancing in a circle, a sort of reel dance, while Gloria sat holding her and Bayly's eight-month-old daughter, born in November. The baby squirmed and kicked to be free until at last, exhausted, she fell asleep in Gloria's arms in spite of all the raucous action going on.

By the time the sweet brandy was passed around (traditionally after the man and woman had consummated their wedding and provided proof of the girl's chastity in the form of blood) Desislava and Bilyana were half-drunk and feeling somewhat less judgmental—which didn't stop them from commenting on the lack of proper decorum.

"What did you say?" Bilyana demanded, slurping another glass of wine. "Viktor refused to perform, claims it is uncivilized?"

"That's what he said. He claims it's no one's business," confirmed Desislava, bobbing her head knowingly. "Children nowadays! What can you do?"

Bilyana burped, then covered her mouth and giggled. "Oops. I need some food…or maybe a touch more of that brandy…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**September 2002**

"You lift the scales like this, very carefully so as not to pull them or cause discomfort," Rabby instructed as he observed Draco practicing on a sheet of dragon pelt he'd purchased for just this purpose.

Draco inserted the thin, flat metal stick between the scales and lifted ever so gently. The top scale rose enough for him to peer beneath it, where he found a red bump surrounded by swelling. "I don't get it. Dragons are extremely well protected by their body armour. How could anything get in to cause this injury?"

"Look more closely, Draco. What do you see?"

Draco angled the skin toward the light. It was a weal, fairly small, yet whose swelling extended beyond the initial wound into surrounding territory. No sign of blood; in truth, it reminded him of a mosquito bite. "It looks to me like a bug bite."

"Bugs," agreed Jorab simply, pleased with the boy's progress. "Dragons don't have to worry about arrows or muggle gunfire, or even magical spells in most cases. However, they can't protect themselves from tiny little insects that wiggle between their scales and burrow into their skin. That's where you come in as a dragon veterinarian."

"I thought I was going to learn how to bind broken limbs and do surgery," said Draco, obviously disappointed. Somehow, this didn't quite measure up.

"You will, in time. First you need to learn to treat the easy things, which by the way tend to constitute the majority of complaints you'll treat." Rabby flicked his wand and the scale stood on end, no longer needing the metal insert. "Skin disorders plague dragons, making them very uncomfortable. As you might guess—"

"An uncomfortable dragon is an unhappy dragon," Draco said, smiling.

"I feel confident you'll be using your homemade potions and salves on your patients very soon," said Rabby. He didn't mention that having had Snape as a Potions instructor had probably vastly increased Draco's skill in that area, which would prove to be a great benefit. "I understand your grandfather was quite a healer in his time; maybe he passed on some of that talent to you."

"He worked on people, not animals," Draco corrected him.

"I know that, but it's basically the same principle." He aimed his wand with a beam of light at the swelling. "Touch it. Is it hard or soft? Rough or smooth?"

Hesitant at first, Draco reached forward; one finger lightly stroked the redness. "That light really helps. It's sort of hard, smooth, hot. It's an abscess; it looks like it has a pocket of pus that isn't softened up yet. That means infection is present."

"Excellent. And the treatment for that is…?"

"Lancing, or surgical removal if too large," Draco recited. "Utilize extreme hygiene measures, drain the pus, and coat with _Haelan Wundian_." He glanced up excitedly. "Am I going to get to try surgery?"

Rab started to say 'no', vacillated, then said, "Sure, why not. That's what you're here for, to learn." It was only a practice pelt, it wasn't as if the dragon would fry them if Draco made a mistake. "Let's ready the instruments."

As they busied themselves gathering the tools necessary for the undertaking, Draco said offhandedly, "Bayly told us that Liv is talking about having a baby. I thought you didn't want kids."

Rab stopped what he was doing for only a second, then continued without looking at Draco. "I didn't…before. I didn't exactly have a wonderful childhood, and no role model to speak of. But I love Bayly's daughter so much, we all do…I feel certain I'll love my own like that when the time comes."

"You will," Draco said with the authority born of having two toddler siblings. "Rugrats tend to grow on you."

Rabby grinned. Ladon and Khala had been a shock for Draco, yet he'd ended up being a terrific big brother. "You would know." He carried a tray of gleaming clamps, scalpels, and forceps to the operating table where Draco had laid the pelt. "Now, before we begin, ready your wand and let's go over procedure one more time…"


	91. Snapshots Part 3 of 5

17

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 91 (Snapshots Part 3 of 5)

**May 2003**

Sunny fidgeted restlessly in her seat, bored by the first year Transfigurations lesson. Changing the colour of flower petals? Seriously? She'd been doing that since she was seven! And without a wand to boot. She watched the other children, their faces puckered in concentration, their wands held in trembling fingers as they attempted the task with the teacher roaming throughout the class observing their efforts. Sunny picked up her flower, a white-petaled daisy like the rest, and examined it while twirling it in her fingers for something to do. She found herself tapping out a tune on the desk with her other hand.

Professor McGonagall glanced her way, and Sunny sat up a bit straighter, though she didn't actually lift her wand. Minerva pinched her lips into a thinner line than usual. In an uncharacteristic display of disdain, Sunny waved a hand and every flower petal in the room turned a brilliant green with thin silver stripes…Slytherin colours. Children cried out in excitement and alarm, heads whipping about to see who'd done this.

Minerva, taken aback not only by the child's audacity, but by her raw gift of magic, stared open-mouthed for a second before saying in a clipped tone, "Miss Hawbecker, that is quite enough. There is no need to show off."

"Lucius says if you have talent, you ought not be ashamed to show it," the girl replied evenly.

"You mean Mr. Lucius Malfoy?" asked Minerva, looking like the knot in her bun had tightened to pull her eyebrows up into her hairline.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Should you not refer to your elders by their titles?" prompted the old witch.

"He said I can call him Lucius," Sunny explained, wishing the rest of the students would mind their own business while simultaneously enjoying the commotion she'd caused. "He's my brother."

Minerva started to respond, but the words caught in her throat and she began to cough violently. A quick _aguamenti _from her wand into a cup on her desk, a couple of sips later, and she raised her face once more to the bold girl. "Your brother?" she managed to croak.

"Well, sort of," Sunny backtracked. "Because of the spell his dad used to save me when I was little, the one that gave me his life force."

"I see," Minerva muttered, turning to the rest of the class. She waved her wand and the flower petals were all white once more. "Please continue with your assignment. Miss Hawbecker, I will speak to you outside." Without waiting for an answer or to see whether she was being followed, she marched out into the hallway.

Sunny left her daisy on the desk and traipsed out after the older witch. The door closed behind them, and all at once the child regretted she'd made a spectacle of herself. Yes, she had the talent, spilled over from the _conviare_ that had saved her life and drained part of Abraxas Malfoy's magic into her; yes, Lucius encouraged her to use her gift to its fullest. Right now, she wished Lucius were here to face Professor McGonagall with her. She peered up meekly at the irate woman and chewed on the inside of her lip.

"Miss Hawbecker, the fact that you are more skilled than the other children in Transfigurations does not give you the right to disrupt my class. Not only are you flaunting your gift in their faces, you discourage those who are less magically capable. Regardless of what nonsense Lucius Malfoy may be filling your head with, this school cannot properly run when everyone follows his or her own agenda…" She went on berating the girl, with Sunny drifting off into her own world, no longer listening. The moment she'd spoken badly of Lucius, the rest didn't matter.

Then she felt it, the slightest pull in her chest, a sensation so scant she'd barely noticed it the first time she met Severus Snape…and then every subsequent time. Severus had admitted he felt it as well when they were near one another or when he felt something amiss. He and Lucius had determined it was probably the result of her relationship to Severus in that he'd also been a recipient of Abraxas Malfoy's use of the _conviare_, in effect making them children of Abraxas in a different way from Lucius. She looked up to see Severus sauntering down the corridor, robes billowing majestically, headed her way, an expression of—well, none really. He was good at hiding his emotions most of the time.

Minerva left off her rant when she detected Snape approaching. "Hello, Headmaster."

"Professor. Is there a problem?" He pierced the witch with his cold stare while he maneuvered himself into position between the girl and the teacher.

"Sunny has taken it upon herself to turn every student's flower into a Slytherin festival," Minerva answered in a huff. "And this is not the first time she's displayed contempt for me and my class."

While Severus' mouth made no move whatsoever to smile, the twinkle in his eye wasn't missed by the girl. "Slytherin? You're a Ravenclaw, Miss Hawbecker. I'd have expected something more cerebral from you."

"That's all you've got to say?" shrilled Minerva. "She's been going on about Lucius Malfoy, which I presume is why the Slytherin motif, and that is not the issue! If it were uncontrolled magic, I could make allowances for it. As it is, I cannot and will not abide this disrespect in my classroom!"

"Let's all calm down, Professor. There is nothing inherently evil about Slytherin, is there?" Severus drawled, waiting for her to either admit her bias or clam up about it. When she merely glared daggers at him, he turned to face the girl, going to one knee beside her, and spoke in a solemn tone. "As for the other charge, young lady, why did you disrupt the class?"

Sunny shrugged. When it became apparent he wasn't going to accept that as a response, she mumbled, "It was boring. I want something fun to do."

"I'm sorry if you find my class wearisome," Minerva said sarcastically.

"It's not that," Sunny protested. "It's just so….easy."

"For you, not for the other children," Minerva answered, unrelenting.

Severus stood up and cocked his head to the side; taking the hint, Minerva walked a few paces away with him and he cast a silencing charm around them. His eyes on the girl, he said, "Minerva, she's eleven—sorry, twelve years old. How many children of this age don't try to test limits from time to time? In particular when they feel stifled in a classroom full of dunderheads…_perceived_ dunderheads," he amended with an eye roll she fortunately failed to note. He felt himself flashing back to his own past, surrounded by brainless ninnies posing as Potions students.

"The curriculum—"

"Is in place for the majority because they need the structure," he interrupted, and continued smoothly before she could object, "Professor Slughorn allowed me to help him make more difficult potions to keep me from mischief due to boredom. You're very talented yourself, Minerva. Even Tom Riddle noticed you on account of it." She blushed, which gave him a smug sense of satisfaction. "Didn't Dumbledore take you under his wing, teach you on the side?" Another tidbit he'd garnered from the diaries. "Sunny needs a challenge, and you're the one most qualified to give that to her."

Minerva patted at her bun, pursing her lips fretfully, then let out a sigh. "I suppose you're right. I'd have been terribly disinterested if I hadn't been given extra instruction; I doubt I'd have acted out. At any rate, it is certainly best to direct her magic in the way it ought to be going."

"Allow me to talk to her alone. I assure you, you'll have no more trouble with her," Severus said. Minerva nodded, and he took down the silencing charm.

"Miss Hawbecker, I will see you in class right after your chat with Professor Snape. Good day, Headmaster." She flounced back into her room, leaving them alone in the hallway.

Sunny, who'd resumed chewing on her lip, let her face fall. He was disappointed in her, wasn't he? She hated thinking he might be. "Are you cross?"

"No," Severus answered truthfully. He led her to the wall and leaned against it with his back, permitting them to stand side by side where he wouldn't have to look her in the eye as if he wished to express some kind of silly sentiment—or worse yet, witness an emotional meltdown on her part. It startled him at times how much she reminded him of his sister Tina, though they looked nothing alike. "Sunny, I could spend half an hour scolding you or asking why you feel the need to misbehave, which would surely be a pointless waste of my time and yours. Suffice it to say I expect better from you, as do your parents, your sister, and Lucius. Professor McGonagall is going to give you lessons apart from class."

"I…I don't understand. She said I have to go back in."

He nodded, not knowing if she even saw it. "Yes, you still have to attend classes, but from now on she will be teaching you something worthy of your level. I've guaranteed you won't be giving her any more lip or acting like a brat. Are you going to make me out a liar?"

"No, sir," she said softly.

"And it may be wise to avoid talking about Lucius when at Hogwarts," he added in a conspiratorial whisper, bending low over her. "He isn't much liked by some people around here."

"Because he was a Death Eater," she said. It was not a question. Lucius hadn't been bad, not like some of them; this she knew from the letter she'd found years ago, written by Lucius and sent to her, intercepted by her mother, and hidden away. Mum must have forgotten to destroy it. Nonetheless, it described what evil things he had NOT been party to, and she knew for a fact he hadn't been lying. It was another of her talents. "So were you. It doesn't mean anything."

"I know that, and so do you. Others are not always so….charitable." He stood upright and patted her shoulder lightly. "Do we understand one another?"

"Yes, Severus—I mean, Headmaster. I'll behave myself." She smiled fondly up at him. "Are you and Lucius coming over after school is out in June? Mum said we could have a big picnic on the back lawn, and Therese helped make the decorations, and Narcissa said she'd make sure to bring the kids, and—"

"Yes, we'll be there," he replied, letting a grin crease his own face. "Aline and the boys look forward to seeing you again. For now, back to class with you." He opened the door and fairly pushed her inside. "She's all yours, Professor."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**September 2003**

_Ooooh, people! _ Dragomir wiggled to his feet in the tight space and waddled out from under the porch, where he'd been snuggled for warmth, to greet the three humans at the same time that Bori and Oksana came traipsing down the steps. He stretched out his wings proudly as if to show how big he'd grown since Tanassov had last seen him.

He watched the humans go through their strange ritualistic greetings, his attention wandering to the little person with the two big ones. Out of habit he sniffed the air round them. Tanassov he'd known all his life; the yellow-headed one who smelled vaguely of veela was marginally familiar. Bori had said she was part veela. He found it odd that humans were capable of mixing with those unlike themselves—speaking of which, what was the tiny one mixed with? He smelled faintly of those small animals that rushed about making yelping noises…barks. What were they called? Cats? Yes, that was it. He smelled like a cat.

Drago circled the group of people, his gaze fixed on Marcus. Hadn't Bori told him stories of cats purring like dragons? He wondered if this human purred. But wait—no! Those yelpy creatures didn't purr, they just made annoying sounds that made Drago want to eat them.

He shoved his snout up into Bori's paw, and the tall, dark human petted him fondly. "Don't be afraid of him, Marcus. He's very gentle," he said to the little yellow-headed one.

Tanassov thumped the dragon on the side affectionately. "We should have brought Marcus to meet him two years ago, when he first came to us, but someone," he said, looking askance at his wife and smirking, "thought it would be best to wait till he was older."

Luna simply ignored the implication and rubbed her hand down the dragon's back, smiling. "He loves to be petted."

Marcus edged forward, peering round his mother's waist. "Are you sure, Mummy?" He tentatively reached out to touch Drago's green head. When the dragon wiggled his floppy ears and pushed forward, he jumped back with a laugh. "He's funny!" No longer hesitant, he stroked the creature as he saw his parents doing.

Basking in the adoration of all these humans, Dragomir began purring loudly, then quite forgot himself and growled, an invitation to play. Marcus' eyes grew wide and he shied back behind Tanassov. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Bori casually, kneeling next to the animal. "That's what he does when he wants to play. Would you like to ride him? Everyone else is too big for that, but he can fly all by himself now."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Luna interjected, uncharacteristically stern. "Marcus can barely fly an enchanted broom at low levels; I don't care to endanger him by letting him fly off into the sunset on a dragon he's never even met before."

Tanassov laid a hand on his wife's arm. "Darling, Bori would not endanger our son. He won't go far off the ground, will he?" His intense gaze locked with the huge man.

"No, of course not. I'll tell him to stay right here next to the cabin."

"And he understands when you tell him?" asked Luna skeptically.

"Oh, he does," Oksana said, nodding. "I was surprised when I first saw how well he obeys. He's a very good dragon," she cooed, scratching Drago's ears.

Hearing himself referred to as a good dragon, Drago purred again and nuzzled up to the woman. After his initial bout of jealousy so long ago, he'd grown to love Oksana as much as he loved Bori—well, almost as much. Bori was like his—what did humans call it—his mother.

"Yes, he's my good baby," Bori agreed.

If Dragomir had been a person, he'd have blushed. He wasn't a baby anymore, though he'd tolerate it if Bori insisted on calling him that. Bori loved him and was proud of him, and maybe it was understandable he'd forget how big his dragon had grown. As long as it was said with affection, it didn't really matter. He let them pet him some more; the next thing he knew, Bori had plucked Marcus up and swung him onto Drago's back. It was Drago's turn for his eyes to grow wide as saucers: no one had ever ridden him! He wanted to feel indignant, but for recalling how the adult dragons carried humans all the time. This was a good thing! Bori was letting him carry a person, which meant he thought of him as grown up!

He stood very still, letting the little human…boy, they had said…get used to him. Bori had produced that stick of wood that made funny and fantastic things happen and aimed it at the boy, mumbling something Drago couldn't hear. If he got the gist of the conversation, it was to keep Marcus from falling off. Poor unstable, uncoordinated thing.

"Stay in this area," Bori instructed him, swinging his arm in an arc to indicate the cabin and surrounding circle about the cabin. "You can fly, but only very low." He held out a hand about a meter off the ground to show Drago what was expected of him.

Drago whinnied his comprehension. He was to teach Marcus how to ride a dragon, and he had to go slow so as not to frighten him—humans were so easily frightened—or harm him. They were so easily injured, too. Poor weak creatures. Good thing they had indulgent dragons like himself to help them.

He started off at a walk to let Marcus get used to the feel of him, while getting used himself to the sensation of weight on his back. It wasn't much weight, to be honest, and he barely felt it, though the way Marcus was gripping his ears to hold on was exasperating. He shook his head in annoyance, prompting Bori to call out to the boy, who let go and held on round Drago's neck instead. They roamed about the clearing a few times, with Drago rolling his eyes and yawning.

Well, this was tedious. Drago suddenly shuffled into a run and took off in flight, with the boy howling on his back. Ahh, that was better. Mindful of Bori's admonition to stay low, he flew just above the ground all the way around the cabin, and by the time he'd got back to the group of people, Marcus had stopped screaming and was laughing out loud.

"I'm flying a dragon, Mummy and Tate!" he shouted.

_You're flying a dragon?_ Drago answered in his mind, frowning. _I'm the one flying, you're just along for the ride!_ Honestly, humans did love taking credit, didn't they? He supposed he couldn't blame the boy too much, should perhaps even give them allowances: they were, after all, only human.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 2004**

Everything smelled of beer; that was rather to be expected when one was in a pub in the evening. Regulus sat by himself at a table in the corner, his feet propped on the chair opposite him, a pitcher of beer half empty in front of him. His sight felt wonky—also to be expected after drinking for a prolonged period, he supposed. He took a swig from his mug as he looked about. A couple snogging at the table beside him seemed oblivious to anyone else's presence. At the bar, two men argued loudly over the soccer match on the telly. A man to his far left was trying to convince his date that it would be fun to dance…or perhaps shag, he couldn't make out the words.

He emptied the mug, refilled it, and raised his hand to the waitress to bring him another pitcher. He'd almost forgotten how good beer tasted once you got used to it, and although he'd only visited this pub near his home at Spinner's End a few times, he felt comfortable here. In the back of his mind he wondered if Severus' father used to come here.

"Hey, Reg, what're you doing?"

George Weasley appeared from his right, startling him. Reg grinned up at him and casually waved a hand; the chair beside him slid out as if of its own accord, and it was George's turn to look surprised. "Wandless magic. I'm pretty good at it," Reg explained.

George took his seat. "I got worried when you didn't come back to the shop after lunch. I've been searching all over for you. And you didn't answer my question."

"What does it look like I'm doin'? I'm gettin' shitfaced. Blottoed. Sloshhhhed." He drew the 'sh' sound out, then laughed. "Slosh. Slosh. Doesn't even sound like a word."

"Why?"

The other man shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe coz I said it too many times." He finished off his beer, drank the last bit straight from the pitcher, and set it down. "How rude of me. Did you want some? The waitress is bringin' another pitcher."

"No, thank you."

Just then the woman came hauling the aforementioned container of alcohol, which she set in front of Regulus. To Weasley she said, "What'll you 'ave?"

"Nothing, thank you." She left, and George grabbed Regulus' arm to hold it down as he attempted to gulp another mug full. "Why are you doing this? I thought you quit drinking."

"I did…then I started again." He shook off the redhead's hand. "What difference does it make?"

"I care about you. You're my good friend—hell, you're full partner in my business!"

His expression softening, Reg patted him on the cheek clumsily while cooing, "Aw, that's so nice. You care." His eyes struggling to focus, he stared at George. "You got loads of freckles, you know that?"

"Looks to me like you've been here quite a while. Let me walk you home."

Reg chuckled and grinned again, mischievously. In a drunken drawl he said, "I don't usually let strange men pick me up at the pub."

George chortled with him. "Ah, but you know me, so I'm not a stranger—at least no stranger than any other bloke." He got up and hoisted Reg from his seat. "Can you walk okay?"

"I'm not a bloody invalid." Regulus rounded the table, stumbled over the chair leg, and almost sprawled onto the floor. By the time he'd navigated his way outside to lean on the pub wall, he'd fallen once, smacked a man in the head with his elbow, and knocked over a waitress carrying a tray of beers, all of which George had hurriedly apologized and paid for. When he met his friend outside, Reg admitted, "I'm a little more gone than I thought. Don't tell Lucius, he'll be pissed. Not pissed drunk, Cissy doesn't like that."

"Yeah, me and Malfoy are like this," said George, crossing his fingers in front of Reg's glassy, vacant gaze. "We talk all the time."

Not catching the sarcasm, Reg staggered on toward home. "Cissy'll be disappointed in me. I'm sorry."

Strolling beside him, letting Reg steady himself on his shoulder, George said, "You never told me what brought this on."

Regulus heaved a shrug. "Everybody's got a girl 'cept me. Bayly's married and got a kid. Draco and Harry are engaged—not to each other, you know. Coz that would be super weird…they hate each other. Theo and Jacinta—even Sirius is gettin' married soon."

"I haven't got anyone yet, so you're not the only loser. God, now you're depressing me." He pushed lightly against Reg, who almost toppled over, and he had to make a wild grab for him to pull him upright.

They walked along in silence the rest of the way—admittedly a short way. When they got to the front door, Reg fumbled with the key, unable to get it into the lock. At last George took out his wand, glanced about, and opened it with an _alohomora_. He shooed Reg inside and shut the door behind them.

Regulus made a beeline for the loo, and when he returned he flopped heavily onto the sofa, automatically flicking on the telly. "Wanna sit down?"

"No, I should go. But think of what Fred would say about us all desperate for girls. He'd say—and I'd use his accent, only I fear it would pretty much sound like mine—he'd say, 'Buck up and stop the whinging, you pitiful prats. The longer you wait for something good, the more you appreciate it.' That's what he'd say."

Reg paused to consider it, nodding thoughtfully. "Fred's a wise man. I'll have to tell him so next time I see his portrait."

"I'm the one who said it," protested George weakly.

"Stop tryin' to horn in on your brother's cleverness, George. It's not becoming." Reg snuggled down on the couch, hugging a pillow as he eased into a prone position. "Thanks for stoppin' by. See you later. I'm really sleepy."

"Bye, Reg. Take care."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Regulus woke up to the face of Kreacher gawping at him from mere centimeters away. A strangled cry escaped even as he leapt up, and Kreacher screamed as he jumped back, wondering what was wrong with his beloved master. "Damn it, Kreacher, you scared me half to death."

"Is good Master Regulus well? Does my master need something? He smells of filth and muggles."

Reg smacked his lips; his mouth, dry as a drought plain in the summer, felt as if someone had sucked all the fluid from his body. The telly in the background hawked a toothpaste product. His head throbbed, and he thought he smelled vomit. He looked at the rug over the edge of the couch. Yep, there it was.

"Get me a drink of water," he croaked. "And clean this up."

Aw, shit, this was bad. He ran rapidly through the events of the preceding night; he remembered everything in a fairly coherent fashion, meaning there'd been no pesky blackout episodes—that was the good part. He'd tried so hard to stay sober, though this wasn't the only time he'd fallen off the wagon. Always before he'd managed to hide it so as to avoid witnesses and avoid feeling guilty, and now George knew. And Kreacher knew. At least Kreacher would never divulge it—unless he feared for his master's life, in which case he'd run to Cissy so fast it would make Regulus' head spin. Then Lucius would find out, and the real torment would begin.

He gulped down the glass of water Kreacher brought him, and out of habit patted the elf on the head. "Thank you."

"My good master is so welcome," beamed Kreacher.

Why had he gone and got soused again? It never made things better, did it? Lucius had offered to get him professional help to quit drinking, and he'd turned him down. Now he'd yell at him for being stupid and weak…or Reg assumed he would. And yet, Lucius had made it plain he loved Reg, even if he wouldn't outright say it; he truly wanted to render any assistance he could. As good as getting drunk felt, the day after wasn't worth it. Losing the respect of his family and friends wasn't worth it. Waking up covered in vomit was not worth it. It just wasn't. Maybe it was time he took Lucius up on that offer.

"Kreacher, go tell Cissy I need to speak with her and Lucius."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**August 2004**

Heart in her throat, Charlotte stood on the doorstep of Number 9 Grimmauld Place; had it been a couple of months earlier, her heart would have been racing, but that didn't happen when one was…what was the politically correct term…no longer in possession of life. Most people simply called it dead, though the precise term for a vampire could more accurately be described as 'undead'. She raised her hand and knocked.

A moment later Kreacher dragged open the door and peered out into the dark at her. His hideous visage lit up and he squealed a most God-awful noise. "Miss Charlotte! Miss Charlotte comes back!" He grabbed her hand and dragged her inside to where Ginny and Harry were gathered at the kitchen table. Proudly displaying her as if he'd captured her in the wild, he puffed out his skinny chest and announced, "Miss Charlotte comes home."

Harry ran around the table to her and threw his arms round her, lifting her off the ground. "Where have you been? We've missed you."

"I missed you, too," she said shyly.

"It's nice to see you back," Ginny said woodenly. She extended a hand, which Charlotte took, and Ginny pulled hers back with a startled look. "You—you're freezing," she stammered. The uneasiness in her eyes told a whole story unto itself. Apparently she was not only afraid of werewolves, but of vampires as well…or maybe only of this specific vampire. They hadn't exactly got on well in the past.

"Yeah, we kind of always are," Charlotte answered.

Harry took another look, up close this time, and stroked the girl's cheek. It was, indeed, quite cold. "You did it. You're a vampire," he said.

She couldn't tell what his expression meant, whether he was happy or sad about it…or merely accepting. "Yes. Two months ago. This is the longest flight I've taken since then, and I'm kind of tired. Is Henry here?"

"Upstairs. Are you staying long? Sirius will want to see you," Harry said. "I want to visit with you, too."

"If it's no trouble, I can stay for a few days, or even longer." Her gaze fell on Ginny, who conveniently turned her head to the window and took a sip of tea. "Or I can stay with Sirius and Daphne." They'd married only recently, and she hated to intrude, yet she didn't want to stay here where Ginny always seemed to be even though these two were _not_ yet married. At least Daphne seemed to genuinely like her. "I'm gonna go see Henry."

With Kreacher clinging to her leg, she made her way to the stairway; a surprisingly strong hand plucked the elf free and set him on the floor, with a kiss planted on top of his bald pate. "Thanks for being so nice, Kreacher."

"Kreacher loves Miss Charlotte. Does Miss Charlotte wants something to eat or drink?"

"Noooo, I uh…I can't. Not unless you've got some blood lying around."

"Kreacher could get some if you want," he replied, bobbing his oversized head. It made a shudder run up her spine to think of where he might get it.

"No, thank you." She left him at the bottom of the stairway, and he shuffled off as she ascended. At the top of the stairs she paused, then headed down the hallway to the far room, which had at one time belonged to Regulus. Oh, she'd need to go visit him, too. She hesitated in the doorway before pushing the door open fully.

Henry glanced up from the book he had been studying. He dropped it on the bed and jumped up. "Charlotte! I was starting to think you forgot about me."

Flinging her arms round the thirteen-year-old, she hugged him to her for a long moment, petting his head as she'd done since he was a small boy. "Never, Henry. Never."

"Come sit down." Henry led her to the bed, where she flopped across on her belly, chin in her hands. He sat on the edge staring at her. "You're different…you did it. What's it like?"

"Yes, I did it." Déjà vu. She smiled, baring her fangs at him. "I'm a lot stronger now—more like having werewolf strength all the time, only without the crazies to go with it. I can see in the dark really well, and I can fly. That's how I got here. Oh, and I'm studying with Mateo how to float just barely above the floor without falling on my face. So far no luck."

Henry smiled, a wistful smile that made her feel sad. "I wish I could live with you. I miss it, Charlotte."

"I know, but Harry won't let you; I don't think Yadiro would, either. Not unless you planned to become one of us." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Have you thought about it?"

"Every day," he admitted quietly, laying down so his head landed on her back. "But I…I don't wanna make you mad, Charlotte, but I don't want to be a vampire. I'm okay the way I am, and the Wolfsbane helps a lot."

"I'm not cross, Henry. I want you to be happy."

"Are you happy?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," she said without hesitation, and for the first time in many years she realized it was true. "I've loads of friends now, and nobody's scared of me. Everyone understands how I feel…it's really nice for a change." She paused. "I just feel bad about…you know…leaving you."

"You had to. I understand that." He closed the book on the bed, his finger tracing along the edge over and over. She'd suffered so much under the Wolfsbane, and without it she simply wasn't safe to be around, either. "It's not really leaving as long as you come visit often, yeah?"

"Yeah," she agreed, staring at the carpet over the end of the bed. "So you're alright with who—what—I am?"

"You're my sister, Charlotte," he said softly. "That's who you are, and that's all that matters."

"Thanks, Henry," she answered. She sat up abruptly, spilling him off of her. "I have an idea. Want me to fly you to Sirius' house? He'd get a kick out of it, I'll wager."

"But Harry would throw a tantrum."

"Not if we don't tell him." She flashed to the window and lifted it. Cool evening air spilled in. Out in the street, cars drove by oblivious to the dark creatures in the house so near. She turned to the boy right behind her, and grasping him under both armpits lifted him high in the air with as little effort as if he'd been a newborn. "See, I can hold you."

"Put me down. That's dreadfully uncomfortable. Let's just use the floo, alright?"

"Spoilsport," she muttered, setting him down. He straightened his clothes indignantly. "Maybe Sirius will let me take him for a flight."

Henry chuckled. "You're so stubborn; that hasn't changed. Come on, Sirius will let you show off for him. He's a nutter like you." He walked out into the hallway. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"An engraved invitation," she smirked at him.

"And notarized?" he shouted behind him as he proceeded to clomp down the steps.

She trailed after him, still smiling. "That would be nice—and a party. I'd like a party…"

(**Author's Note**: I have wonderful news to share. I won a writing contest, and the grand prize was to have my original book published through Whispers Publishing, which has informed me that the e-book is due for release on May 4. It's called _We Were Nobles: Dach's Story_, and it is under the author name _Carol Notwolf._ I'd appreciate your support, so if anyone is interested, check my profile page for the link to the site where I won the contest. To celebrate the news, I have decided to write an extra bonus chapter for this story, to be released on May 4. The e-book can be purchased through amazon dot com or the Whispers Publishing home site. Of course, if for some reason the book is held up and I look like an idiot, please keep looking for it. Thank you!)


	92. Malfoy Rules

8

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 92—Bonus Chapter

(**A/N:** Please don't forget to read chapter 91 if you are just checking for the latest update. It was posted Tuesday. This is a bonus chapter in honor of my first original book being published through Whispers Publishing. If you'd like to lend your support, I'd love to have it—you can read an excerpt of **We Were Nobles: Dach's Story** (author _Carol Notwolf_) and purchase the e-book through amazon dot com or the Whispers Publishing home site. IMPORTANT: I just found out that you can purchase it in **pdf** format for the home computer from the Whispers Publishing site. Thanks!)

**Malfoy Rules**

**June 1642**

"Oh, I have a good one!" Optimus Malfoy announced, grinning like a Cheshire cat at his father. "_House elves are a necessary evil._"

The young man's father studied his son with a withering scowl worthy of the Malfoy name. Deciding against a scathing reply, he lifted his wand over the parchment situated on the grand oak desk. They were going for rules, not maxims! If he hadn't beat the difference into the boy yet, it was surely too late. Goodness, he was twenty-seven years old! Nonetheless, his quill danced along inscribing the words for him. He moved aside a full page to reveal yet another pristine, blank parchment beneath it.

"One can only hope our descendants will appreciate the time and effort we're putting forth into this volume for personal conduct," drawled the older man.

"I'm certain they'll love us for setting down in black and white exactly how to run their lives," Optimus assured him. He glanced to the doorway, where his seven-year-old son peeked around the corner watching them. "Come, Silvanus. It's time you begin learning what it means to be a Malfoy."

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**June 1986**

"_House elves are necessarily evil_," Lucius quoted with a bored expression, not even glancing down at the fat, ancient book before him. He was busy scrutinizing his fingernails, and had come to the realization that he needed a manicure. Honestly, why was _he_ being quizzed? It wasn't as if he'd failed to learn all these lessons years ago.

Abraxas scowled at his full grown son, who was far too old to make an amateurish mistake like that. "Have you lost your ability to read, Lucius? That isn't what it says."

"Really?" replied the younger in a tone dangerously close to derisive. He confidently pulled the tome to him and squinted down at the lettering, rapidly tracing his finger down the list, reading here and there.

_A Malfoy does what he needs to do in order to accomplish his goals._

_ A Malfoy never cries in public._

_ Purebloods strive for perfection, they do not wallow in mediocrity._

Ah, here it was! _House elves are a necessary evil._ Lucius blinked a few times and read the sentence again to make sure he hadn't developed an eye disorder. His blond brow knit into a frown.

"Huh!" Lucius articulated in a grunt, making him sound more like a day laborer than the heir to the Malfoy fortune. "I could swear it used to say something else. I mean, that blasted Dobby is the perfect example—"

"—of evil and stupid!" Draco squealed, completing the thought.

"Good boy," Lucius crooned, patting the six-year-old's white-blond head. "I don't know what those damned ancestors were thinking, setting down regulations for every detail of how to run our lives."

He stole a glance at Abraxas, whose scowl had deepened to a threatening glower. Never a good sign. For some godforsaken reason, this oppressive Malfoy system was very dear to the older wizard's heart. Were it not for his father's influence, he'd have put off training Draco in the ways of the Rules for a while longer.

Abraxas held out a loving arm toward his grandson, and Draco flew into it, cuddling against his grandfather's chest. In an encouraging tone Lucius rarely recalled hearing in his own childhood, Abraxas said, "Draco, why don't you start reading for us?"

Not needing any more impetus, the little boy laboriously dragged the heavy book across the table and, crawling up onto Abraxas' lap, bent his head over to read. His sweet childish voice rang out:

"_A Malfoy walks with pride._

_ Malfoys master their emotions._

_ A Malfoy man respects women._

_ Mani—manny pull shun—"_

"Manipulation," Lucius corrected with a tiny smile.

"_Manipulation is our friend._ Who's that?" asked the lad in earnest.

"You'll learn about that in time, son," Lucius answered, smirking. This was by far one of his favourite rules, and so easy to follow!

"_Malfoys do not sully themselves with wa—horis,_" Draco went on.

"Whores," Abraxas interjected quietly. He instinctively averted his eyes.

"Grandpa, what's 'sully'?" asked Draco, wide-eyed, twisting his neck so far around he looked like his head might snap off.

"To make dirty," answered his grandfather. He squirmed in his seat, dreading the next words out of the child's mouth.

"Oh. What's a whore?"

Abraxas turned a deep shade of red. He'd never been comfortable discussing sexuality in any form. He kicked Lucius' leg under the table. "Lucius, do you want to field this one?"

Looking like a deer caught in the headlights, Lucius paused. At last he reached over the library table and flipped the page of the book. "Moving on…"

Draco took a deep breath, smiling with delight. He loved being here with Father and Grandpa, learning all the wonderful things that made him special. It made him feel connected to all those Malfoys who'd gone before him, a long, proud line of purebloods.

"_A Malfoy always pays his debts. A Malfoy avoids indebting himself to lessers._ That's everybody!" Draco exclaimed, looking up at the two men.

Abraxas beamed at him and Lucius patted his head again. "That's my boy! Later on there's a whole page dedicated to our obligatory arrogance and condescension toward our inferiors. You'll enjoy that section."

"_Purebloods obey their parents at all times,_" intoned Draco, shifting his eyes guiltily. He'd broken that rule more than once! Did that make him less special?

Lucius came round the table to poke his son in the side as he whispered in his ear, "I think your grandfather sneaked that one in there."

"I heard that! I'm sitting right here," Abraxas retorted, evidently miffed. "And I did no such thing."

"Certainly looks an awful lot like your handwriting," insisted Lucius.

Abraxas extended his arm up to cuff Lucius on the back of the head with an open hand. "Keep it up and it'll look an awful lot like my cane across your arse."

Lucius moved over a bit to the nearest chair and sat down, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue—an urge liable to send him to St. Mungo's for extensive treatment. In lieu of physical demonstrations of rebellion, he quipped, "You gave me your cane when Draco was born."

"I'll get another," growled his father. "Stop interrupting the lesson, Lucius!"

"Keep reading, Draco," advised the younger man in an obvious ploy to land back in Abraxas' good graces.

"Is Grandpa going to spank you, Father?" Draco inquired with a touch of fear in his eyes.

"No, son, he's just joking," Lucius responded, casting the evil eye at his sire. "You know your grandfather, he's quite the kidder."

Draco grimaced and shook his head solemnly. "Grandpa never jokes with you."

Lucius squeezed the boy's shoulder a tad harder than necessary. "Read."

_"Malfoys are better than everyone else,_" piped the lad.

"No explanation necessary there," said Lucius smugly.

_"Malfoys do not control the weather."_ Draco looked up, squinting with confusion.

Sporting a similarly perplexed expression, Lucius admitted, "I never quite figured out why _that_ is in there." As one, he and Draco turned expectant faces to the patriarch.

Abraxas sighed heavily. He didn't relish telling stories that made his predecessors look bad, but they deserved to know the truth. "One of our ancestors took it into his head to play around with the elements. Long story short: mini-Ice Age in Europe."

"Oooh," Lucius exclaimed in reverent admiration. What an incredible family he came from! "That's so awesome! Think of what we could do if we controlled—"

Holding Draco tightly to keep him from falling off his lap, Abraxas leaned over and popped his son upside the head again, silencing him. "Don't. Even. Think about it." Then, smiling gently down at Draco, he stroked the boy's hair while saying, "Continue, little one."

"_Met—i—callous…"_

"Meticulous," Abraxas prompted. "It means to be very careful."

"_Meticulous grooming must be observed._ Is that why we always have to dress nice and not get dirty?" asked the child. Both men nodded at the same time, while subconsciously flicking imaginary bits of lint off their clothing. _"There are no squib Malfoys._ Father, didn't you say the Crabbe family had a squib?"

"Yes, son. What has that got to do with us?"

"What causes squibs?"

Lucius shrugged. "It just happens. We don't know why."

"Could it happen to us?" asked Draco, instinctively pulling back against his grandfather and wrinkling his nose, his whole demeanor one of ghastly terror.

In an attempt to calm the boy, Lucius patted his back while he declared with great authority, "No, absolutely not."

"But why? If it just happens," Draco persisted.

Rolling his eyes as if to inquire whether his son was a moron, this whole question being moot and self-explanatory, he said in a patronizing sneer, "Because we're _Malfoys_. There are no squib Malfoys."

"But—"

"Which part of 'No Squib Malfoys' escapes you, Draco?" Lucius demanded, his voice rising.

"I was just saying—"

Abraxas hugged the lad and closed the book with a loud clap. "Draco, I suggest we give it a rest. Your father is on the verge of a seizure."

Another wicked glare shot between the men. "If I were, and I am not in any way agreeing with you, I'd blame that damnable book!" Lucius got up and stomped from the room.

Draco watched him go then looked up at his grandfather with a wistful smile. "Can I have ice cream, Grandpa?"

"_May_ I, Draco. And yes, you may."

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**January 2005**

Ladon padded down the plush carpet of the hallway to his father's library. They were supposed to do something special today, now that he'd turned six years old. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about it, though, because Father hadn't seemed all that enthusiastic. In fact, he'd seemed almost reluctant to even discuss it, and if Grandpa hadn't spoken up from the portrait, he doubted father would have brought it up at all. And that made him all the more curious and worried.

He pushed on the heavy wooden door, which swung open easily. "Father?"

From the far end of the library, where Lucius had been perusing a section of Dark Arts, he rose and looked at his son. So small and precious. Pride rose in his chest, and he smiled. "Ladon, my boy. Come here to the table."

By the time Ladon had struggled up onto one of the stuffed chairs, Lucius had fetched The Book and set it down with a resounding thump; dust flew from the cover that had lain untouched for so many years. He tapped the cover lightly. "You know what this is?"

"The book of Malfoy Rules," responded the child softly, his voice full of awe. He'd heard of this tome, but had never seen it. One tiny hand slid along the exposed pages. It was so thick, much bigger than he'd envisioned. "Am I going to start learning it today?"

Lucius hesitated for only a second. "That was the plan, wasn't it? Your grandfather believes you ought to start reading and absorbing its truths."

Ever perceptive in discerning Lucius' hidden thoughts, a quality that frequently made Father upset, Ladon replied, "But you don't think so."

"I…" Lucius sighed and opened the book. "I think there is much to be learned, although I'm not certain that you need to begin so early."

"That's not all of it," Ladon said, his grey eyes fixed on his sire.

"No." How did the kid manage to read him so easily? Since he'd been a toddler he'd had that uncanny ability to drive Lucius up the wall with his discernment that most adults never fully mastered. How could he tell his son that he simply did not necessarily agree with everything in the book anymore (if indeed he ever had), and that in light of that fact, he was disinclined to teach it to Ladon? At last he said, "I am not disposed toward it at this moment."

"You mean you don't want to?"

Lucius chuckled and picked the boy up off his chair, then he hugged him to his chest. "You're precocious, but I forget that you're still only a young boy. We can worry about this old book some other time. Go fetch your sister and we'll play outside until supper."

He set down Ladon, who scurried off happily in search of Khala. Then he lifted his wand, aimed it at the volume, and stopped. No, he couldn't incinerate it. There were too many sayings in it that were still valid, so much his children deserved to know, so much of his heritage encased in that moldy old thing. Perhaps he'd go over it line by line, get rid of the rules he didn't like or agree with. That would pare it down considerably—and Ladon could thank him later for having to learn so far fewer Rules.

Relieved at having set forth his game plan, he shoved the book back onto its spot on the shelf, dusted his hands off on his trousers, and left the library. He had some snowballs to make, and children to train in the ways of fort building; there was more to being a Malfoy than The Rules, after all.


	93. Snapshots Part 4 of 5

16

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 93 (Snapshots Part 4 of 5)

**February 2005**

Marshal shifted in his seat at a small table which had room for only four; he looked at the playing card laid out in front of him. Four of clubs. Should he take it or let it go? It could be a trap, and he did have the three of clubs. But he needed to be rid of these high level cards. He fingered one card at length, then suddenly grabbed the queen and threw it down. Nott, seated to his left, played the queen of spades, and Lucius following him played the seven of hearts.

"You're cheating!" growled Marshal as he angrily scooped up the cards to add to the growing stack in front of him. "Nobody can take this many tricks in Hearts so many hands in a row."

"If I may field this one, perhaps you're just a lousy player," Lucius said, smirking.

"I am not. You're working together, signaling each other," Marshal insisted, pouting.

"To what end?" asked Dolph, who'd thrown the four. "So we can win a silly card game? And we can't all win anyway, only the one with the fewest points."

"Oh, shut up," Marshal snapped back.

"I'll prove it to you," Lucius offered, bidding his daughter to come near as she ran past in search of her brother, who'd eluded her in their game of Hide And Seek. "I'll let Khala play this hand, and we'll see." He took the five-year-old child up onto his lap and showed her the cards. "Do you remember this game, my princess? You try to get rid of the hearts and the queen of spades."

"I remember," she answered, pleased to be included in the conversation of adults. Usually Father sent her and Ladon away when he talked to his friends.

"Would you like to help me out by playing a hand for me?"

"Yeah!" she squealed, bouncing up and down on top of him.

"Good." Lucius tapped the table and motioned to Nott as he gathered the cards together and handed them to him. "Your turn to deal."

Khala picked up each card as it came her way, clumsily attempting to hold all thirteen in her tiny hands, and failing that, Lucius draped his arms round her and held them for her. Studying them thoughtfully, she shook her head ruefully. "I'm not sure, Father. Is it my turn first?"

"Yes—you have the two of clubs."

"See?" Marshal crowed in triumph. "You're helping her already!"

Khala threw the two out, and play progressed. Dolph played the six, Marshal the ten, and Nott the ace. Having taken the trick, Nott led with the five of diamonds; Khala played the eight, Dolph the king, and Marshal the three. Dolph led with the nine of diamonds, Marshal played the ten, Nott the seven, and Khala smirked exactly like her father as she plucked the queen of spades from her hand and tossed it onto the pile.

"You can't do that, you have to play a diamond," Marshal barked.

"I don't have any more," replied the little girl.

"Let me see!" Marshal jumped up and leaned over the table to bend her cards forward, then he threw his onto the table in a huff. "You told her what to play, Malfoy!"

"I didn't say a word!" protested Lucius. "You all heard me. Not saying a word, that is."

"You signaled her."

"I'm behind her. How, pray tell, did I manage that?" He lifted Khala off his lap and set her on the floor. "Thank you, darling, you have proven my point for me."

"What point? And why is Mr. Marshal so mean?"

Dolph bent down to her and whispered deliberately loudly, "He gets cranky when he hasn't had his nap. You can go find Ladon now."

The girl skipped from the room in pursuit of her brother, and Lucius crossed his arms and drawled, "Spoilsport much, Marshal?"

"I thought we were supposed to be having a good time to celebrate my anniversary, not everyone ganging up on me," Marshal responded. He stomped away from the table to the sofa and picked up a glass of firewhiskey from the tray left by Cinchona earlier. He gulped it down and pushed himself back into the cushions. "I can't believe it's been a whole year already. It feels like yesterday I got married."

Lucius, who'd followed him over, gestured for the other men to take their drinks as well. "We're just toying with you, Wallace. We all wish you and Ophelia a long and happy life together." He raised his wine goblet and the rest did the same. "To marriage, and most especially to you and your lovely wife. Cheers."

"Thank you, Lucius." Marshal took another swig from a fresh glass. "Huh, lemonade. Looks just like vodka and grapefruit juice."

"Speaking of wives, where are ours?" asked Nott, looking around. Fidelia and Narcissa had been talking with Ophelia in the parlor only a few minutes ago, and now they'd disappeared.

"You know how women are; Narcissa was going to show Timothy the Dark Arts section of my library, and they went along," Lucius replied. Ladon, Khala, Missy, and Portia were hardly suitable company for a sixteen-year-old boy, and Nott's sons—who were young men with jobs now—hadn't come. "I wonder where Draco is."

"Probably in his room shagging his new wife. I know I would be," Dolph said, chuckling. "Not Astoria, I mean. If it was a different girl—my own—you know what I mean."

"I can't say I'd blame him if he is," Marshal answered. "I can't get enough of Ophelia, and Draco's been married only a few months. He's got all those years to make up for."

Lucius, eager to change the subject as the idea of picturing his son having sex was rather disturbing, cleared his throat. Now he knew how his own father had felt when he teased him about his escapades with Narcissa. "So, Marshal, how is your weaponry business faring?"

"Surprisingly well, thank you for asking," said Marshal. "Once I sold a few swords overseas, word spread. Who knew there'd be so many collectors worldwide who want authentic swords, maces, and polearms? Well, alright, swords are understandable, but most people don't appreciate the other weapons nearly as much as I do."

Nott nodded eagerly. "Unless I'm mistaken, and I'm not—oh, that's funny! Get it, I'm _Nott_? Anyway, I overheard a man in Knockturn Alley talking about Marshal's wares. He favourably compared your work to Macnair's."

Everyone quieted in the same instant. While comparison to the great craftsman Kenneth Macnair was a high compliment, it was also a reason for wariness. Yes, Walden Macnair had been 'dead' for many years now, and most would never dream to make the association, but it only took one nosy, clever person to disrupt everything.

"Did he say anything else?" asked Dolph, breaking the silence.

"No. I'm sure no one suspects anything."

"You are careful to use a unique signature, right?" Lucius asked Marshal.

"If you mean I make certain my style isn't exactly like my father's, then yes," Marshal answered, rolling his eyes. _Honestly, how stupid do they think I am? Don't answer that_. "But to ward off people asking too many questions, I tell all my new customers that Macnair wanted to pass on his skill, his legacy, but since his son turned out to be a no-good Death Eater, I was apprenticed to study under Kenneth Macnair for a few years until he died."

The other men nodded thoughtfully, approvingly. Not a bad cover story.

"Are we late?" Severus poked his head in the room, with Aline at his elbow and their sons clinging to their legs. "Happy Anniversary, Marshal."

"Severus! Why didn't the elf announce you?" Lucius got up to shake hands. "Aline, the women are upstairs in my library—unless you'd like to stay here with us. You're certainly welcome to do so."

"That's alright, Lucius. We'll all come together later in the evening, I'm sure. The children want to see Ladon and Khala." Aline scanned the men in the room, greeting each in turn with a nod and a smile. "Happy Anniversary, Wallace. Rab and Livonia aren't coming?"

"They'll be here," Dolph answered. "Their baby was sick last week with a cold, and they're probably warding him with every spell known to man to keep our germs off him."

"I think we've all been there," Aline said, laughing to herself. She'd worried incessantly about the twins for at least the first year. "Well, see you gentlemen soon." She ducked out, dragging the boys glued to her legs along the hallway toward the stairs.

Severus eyed the platter of glasses, grimacing. He didn't care for firewhiskey, or wine for that matter, though it was less objectionable. He wasn't quite sure what was in the other glasses, and wasn't anxious to find out. He sat down beside Nott, who'd already swilled down two glasses of something. "Nott, good to see you again. So, what are we discussing?"

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**October 2005**

Wind streaming through her dark hair, twirling it round her head like a top, rushing past her ears in a hiss, Astoria dared a glance at the earth so far below. It looked surprisingly like a patchwork quilt of forest, field, and farmland. Very pretty. She hugged Draco a little more snugly and pressed her face to his back. It may be lovely down there, but she wasn't in any hurry to make acquaintance with it the hard way. The dragon under her heaved up and down in undulating waves with the flapping of its wings, a comforting if frightening rhythm.

They were losing altitude; the dragon's nose dipped downward toward what appeared to be a wee patch of brown, which as they grew closer turned into the camp they'd left half an hour ago. The clearing was indeed brown, along with the cabins and the dragon runs, though the sides were bordered by thick green woods that had begun to change colour with autumn. The dragon's wings fluttered delicately as they now descended straight down like a helicopter, to land with such a light sensation Astoria wasn't quite sure they'd hit ground.

Draco twisted to her, smiling broadly. "So, how did you like it?"

"It was incredible," she answered truthfully, though her body trembled slightly, whether from the chilly air or the adrenaline rush.

Draco hoisted one leg over the dragon and slid down the dragon's black neck to land expertly on his feet, and extended his arms up to his wife. She allowed herself to be helped down, and stood facing him, studying his wind-swirled hair. It was already thinning a bit, but it mattered not at all. She laid a hand on his cheek, smiling at him as he petted and thanked the animal for its service.

"Draco, I let you take me on this flight now because I won't be able to do it again for a long time," she began, waiting for him to make the connection.

He stared blankly back at her. "Are you going on tour again? I thought you'd told them you were on hiatus for a year."

"Um, no, I'm not going on tour." She absently petted the dragon's hide, and it started to purr. "Draco, we're going to have a baby."

Pause. Eyes widen. "You're pregnant?"

She nodded, and Draco snatched her into his arms again, this time with a joyous yelp. "Oh, Tori, I'm so happy! We're going to have a son, my heir!"

Laughing, Astoria waited for him to put her down. "You're so sure it's going to be a boy? Is that one of your Malfoy Rules?"

"An unwritten one," he replied, smirking. Taking her hand, he dragged her in the direction of the cabin he stayed in when in Bulgaria. "Come on."

Astoria lagged behind, pulling back. "I know you're excited, but if we go in there everybody will know what we're doing. And don't you have to put the dragon back in its dragon-area thingy?"

Draco stopped and looked back at her, a flash of confusion dissolving instantly into delighted laughter. "As much as it entices me to think of shagging you right now, I was planning to pack. We need to go home and tell my parents. They'll be so thrilled."

"I'll bet they will," she answered. "How much will you wager they'll want to name the baby?"

"That's a sure bet, dear," he said, grinning still. "I've been toying with a few names over the years. What do you think of Pegasus?"

"Like the winged horse?" she asked, grimacing. "I don't think so."

"It is a whole galaxy, not just a horse," he retorted. "And then there's Hercules…or Taurus…or…I don't know…maybe Scorpius…"

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**April 2006**

Neville had been watching from the window of the Herbology lab for some time, watching Hagrid pace back and forth, his massive strides pounding the earth with each step. Every so often he glanced up at the school, and a whole new expression of disappointment caused his brows to furrow and his shoulders to slump. Unable to bear it any longer, Neville set down his trowel, removed the thick dragonskin gloves that protected him from some of the more nasty plants trying to bite him, and left the lab.

In short order he crossed the lawn, where Hagrid cocked his head and bellowed, "Neville! Whas' got yeh comin' out here? Not thet I'm sorry ter see yeh, o' course."

Neville shrugged and pushed at the ground with his shoe. "I saw you out here alone. You seem to be upset about something, and I thought I might be able to help."

"Nah, I'm alright. Jus' waitin' on Bayly. He said he was goin' ter teach me levitation."

Neville started to nod, then did a doubletake. Levitation? Hadn't Bayly taught him that years ago? It was a simple spell learned by first years. "_Wingardium leviosa?"_

Hagrid grinned, scarcely noticeable through the thick black beard. "Course not. He's goin' ter show me how ter levitate meself. Unless…well, I got no right ter ask, but—how's about yeh show me yerself?"

"Um...m-me? I-I don't know, I'm not—well, I know the spell, but—"

"Aw, don' be a nanny-whistle," Hagrid replied, thumping the young man on the back for encouragement and driving him to his knees from the force of it.

Neville staggered up, so focused on panicking that he completely forgot to notice that he had no idea what a nanny-whistle was. "Hagrid, really, I'm not terribly good with things involving air…being in the air. In fact, I'm just plain terrible! I can barely fly a broom!"

"Well, but this is diff'rnt," insisted the giant. "I can fly a broom now, thanks ter Bayly, but I can't seem ter get meself off the ground. Come on, Neville, give 'er a go."

What could it hurt? Hagrid had made immense leaps and strides with Bayly teaching him these past several years; his magic rarely went awry anymore. Reluctantly Neville removed his wand from his apron pocket. "Alright, here goes. You hold your wand like this." He watched as Hagrid imitated the firm grip. He aimed it down toward his shoes. "Point it at your feet, and say, '_Lypta silba_.'"

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt a sickening sensation of rising. Even as Hagrid did as he was instructed, Neville began to float ever so slowly higher, terror rising in his chest. "Hagrid, help me! Pull me down!"

Unfortunately, since Hagrid's magic had been getting stronger and more under control, he'd been able to perform the charm the very first try. He, too, was lifting off the earth to drift in the air. A massive meaty hand swiped at Neville and missed. "I can't reach yeh!"

"_Finite incantatem! Finite incantatem!_" screamed Neville, to no avail. By now his feet had reached where Hagrid's head would normally have been, had be not been floating alongside him.

"Now, don' panic," said Hagrid.

"Too late! I'm afraid of heights, Hagrid. I think…I'm going to...faint." His head slumped forward, his fingers went lax, and his wand fell to the ground.

He hung limply in the air, three meters above the grass; Hagrid, who'd also stopped rising, grunted softly to himself. This was not good…one might even say it was downright bad. This was what he got for not waiting, for forcing Longbottom into something he wasn't comfortable with. He couldn't even get down since he didn't know the countercharm, which apparently wasn't _finite incantatem_. Great. Just great. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed heavily.

More than an hour had passed by the time Bayly showed up. Seeing the men floating in the air, he'd run toward them with excitement before realizing they weren't moving. Out of breath by the time he arrived, he stared up, open mouthed, at the lifeless Neville—who'd only minutes before awakened to discover he was still in midair and had subsequently fainted for the third time—and the surly giant.

"Hagrid, what happened?" Even as he spoke, he removed his wand. "_Ontdoen flota_." Hagrid drifted slowly down and settled on the ground, his legs feeling weak beneath him. Bayly repeated the charm for Neville, then moved forward to catch him and lay him out on the grass.

Hagrid stomped about a bit, letting his legs regain their feeling. "It's me own fault. I got impatient, made 'im show me, an' he tried ter tell me he weren't no good at this."

"So Neville showed you how to levitate, then he—"

"Fainted. Yep. We been 'ere an hour or so."

"I'm so sorry," Bayly gushed. He bent down to squirt water from his wand on Neville's face. "My son and daughter were fighting, and Gloria isn't up to it just now, being pregnant and all, and I meant to be here, Hagrid. I'm sorry."

"Ah, it's nothing'," said Hagrid. He strode over to nudge Neville with the toe of his huge boot. "Wake up there, Neville. Yer safe on the ground again."

Neville groaned, blinked a few times, and looked up from the grass at the two staring down at him. Yes, he was free! He sat up, almost colliding with Bayly's nose, and shook his head. His legs and arms—well, everything—felt numb. "How did I get down?"

"Bayly 'ere came an' found us," Hagrid explained, helping Longbottom to his feet. "Sorry fer makin' yeh do that, and gettin' yeh all scared an' whatnot."

"It's okay," said Neville, blushing a tad. "Thank you, Bayly. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come. I should get home. Hannah and the kids will be worried." He turned and sprinted for the castle.

"So, Bayly, yeh goin' ter show me levitation?" asked Hagrid hopefully.

"You're not put off by hanging in the air all this time?"

"Nah, it's good practice, right? So, the spell is—"

"Hold on, mate!" Bayly interrupted, grasping Hagrid's wand hand lest he make a real mess. "Let's go over the spells first, and how to direct them so you float where and how high you want to go. _Then_ we'll practice."

Hagrid bowed, surprisingly elegantly, then stood up and winked at the young man. "Yer the teacher."

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**June 2008**

_Aline, are you alright?_ Had he said that out loud? All those years of sneaking about during the dark lord's reign, saying things only in his head for self-preservation, had yet to dissipate fully. Truth be told, Severus wasn't entirely sure he wanted them to; it was far better to be prepared—and yes, paranoid—than to be caught unawares. Senses on high alert, breathing minimized to almost zero, wand in hand, Severus edged into the darkened room where his wife was sprawled across the bed, sobbing softly. No other life signs were detected either by visual inspection or the _homenum revelio_.

He stealthily crossed the room to sit on the bed and stroke her hair. "Honey? Why are you weeping?"

Aline started at first, giving a small cry as she turned her head. Seeing her husband, she relaxed into his touch, then sat up and snuggled against him. Wiping her eyes, she said, "Because I don't want to upset you."

"Good job," he replied dryly.

She jabbed him in the ribs lightly. "You know what I mean. We have to make a decision….but we don't really have a choice, not if we consider what's best for the boys."

"Aline, I've told you I'm fine with this. Adriel and Aidan come first."

She nodded as if expecting his answer. They'd spoken about this for weeks, debating the pros and cons, and frankly there was no other way. Aidan and Adriel were nearly eight years old, more magically proficient than most second year students at Hogwarts. Because of their precocity, Aline had proposed sending them to a school for children with advanced magic…a school found in Salem. Additionally, if they were to receive instruction on how to manage their clairvoyance, they'd need training from Aline's father and sister, the only ones competent to give it. Despite the benefits to their sons, Severus would be giving up so much; it hardly seemed fair to ask this of him, and she couldn't bear to go off to America without him.

"But your job!" she wailed, almost breaking down again. "How often does a post as Headmaster of a prestigious school come along?"

"Never again, I dare say," he responded softly, hugging her to him. "And I don't care. I never wanted that position to begin with. Minerva guilted me into it, then Bayly continued her example, and before I knew it, I'd become one of the drones." He smiled down at her, one of his fingers tracing her silky cheek. "Now I'll be free."

"You'll be leaving your family and friends," she insisted doggedly.

"Are you trying to talk me out of this, my darling? It won't work. You left your family and friends to come teach at Hogwarts, and look what's come of it. I found the love of my life, I have two adorable sons to show for it—and I don't think you're sorry, are you?"

"No, of course not." She pulled back in order to face him, to look upon the beloved visage. This was his last chance to back out before they went ahead with their plans. "We'll be gone for at least ten years."

"And we'll come back for visits as often as possible," Severus finished for her. "And may I remind you that living in Salem will give me the opportunity I've longed for to study the ancient archives that aren't open to the general populace anymore. I can't wait to see what Dark Arts await me there."

Aline stiffened, his excitement spreading to her. She'd quite forgotten about the old library, and how easily Severus would be able to gain access because of his role in the wizarding wars, his role in defeating Voldemort. "And our Potions shop," she added, grinning.

"Indeed." How many years had it been since he'd told his mother he'd like to have his own shop? Thirty? More? He couldn't keep track anymore, yet he'd never forgotten the desire to own a Potions shop dedicated to the exotic, rare, and difficult-to-make potions. Both he and Aline were superbly qualified for such an endeavor; now he had the resources to make it a reality, and the freedom to do so. "It will be good for all of us. And when the children are grown, we can always come back to Britain if we choose, reestablish our shop here."

She looked up at him, smiling impishly now. "You know the boys will end up talking like me if they're in America long enough."

"Somehow, I think I'll manage to continue loving them," he answered drolly. "Go start packing. I need to visit the school one last time, and tonight we'll have to see Lucius and Narcissa and let them know our minds are made up."

Aline got up, straightened her robes and wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks. "I've missed Abby terribly since I've been here. I understand how much you'll miss Lucius."

"I'll survive. I think the Malfoys just may decide a vacation across the pond isn't such a bad idea after all. We may not be able to get rid of them." He kissed her, a peck on the lips at first that turned into a deep, hard kiss. He gripped her arms, pulling her close, the heat radiating between them. A moment later they were snogging in earnest.

"Oh, brother!" Adriel, hands on hips, glared at his parents from the doorway. He pushed back a shock of thick black hair that curled delicately round his face. "That's gross."

Aidan chimed in with, "You said we're supposed to start getting ready to leave. How come you're not?"

"We are," said Severus, winking at his wife. "We're boosting each other's morale."

"What's that mean?" asked Aidan.

"It means get out and mind your own business," replied their father. He swiped a hand at the boys, too far away to even brush their clothing, and they laughed as they dodged. He kissed Aline once more. "I really ought to get to Hogwarts. I'll be back soon, my love. As for you ragamuffins, do what your mother tells you." He affectionately patted their heads as he passed by on his way out the door.

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The atmosphere in his office was murky, not startling since Snape liked to keep it dim; however, nighttime tended to make it eerily dark as the shadows danced along the walls, charmed by the flickering candle on his desk. He'd said his goodbyes once again to the staff, fending off teary embraces as best he could without actually assaulting anyone, and even escaped from Hagrid's bear-hug/death-grip before all signs of life had left his body. He thanked the heavens that they'd not had the audacity to throw him a surprise going-away party, for he feared he might have ended up in Azkaban for mortally hexing the culprits. Now, at last, he was alone in the quiet room, the only sound the occasional hiss of the candle sparking on a foreign object in the wick.

He closed the last drawer of his desk and peered about the room as he loaded the last book into the box on the desk. That was it. Everything that belonged to him lay in that small box, a paltry tribute to his many years of service here. There should have been more after all these years, shouldn't there? It was just as well, he didn't like gathering junk for the sake of having it. Still, he honestly hadn't counted on this odd sensation, this feeling of…loss. Was he actually going to miss Hogwarts? Not likely—alright, maybe a tad. Miss being Headmaster? That was a conundrum. While he abhorred taking responsibility for all those snotty brats, at the same time someone had to do it, and it may as well have been a person who strove to make them better.

He looked at the portraits lining the walls. Most of them were asleep now, or had gone to visit elsewhere. He'd bid them farewell earlier, and listened patiently to the ramblings they passed off as sage advice. Perhaps in the future he may be able to use some of it, say if he were ever in the position of needing to escape from a unicorn lair—did such a thing even exist?—or if he found himself forced to choose between being torn apart by a dragon or eaten by a troll. Or was that reversed? It didn't matter. Over the years, any sound advice they'd had to offer had been given, and subsequently taken to heart, and he understood their desperate drivel for what it was: they were going to miss him, and they wanted to pass along something of themselves to take with him. He thought it actually rather sweet—no, not sweet, that wasn't something Severus Snape would ever think! It was considerate…yes, considerate.

Ah, one more thing. He approached the high shelf where the Sorting Hat sat watching him, if one could watch without benefit of eyes. He reached up and pulled it off the shelf, took it to the desk, and set it down. "You remember what we've talked about in the past?" he asked softly, as if to avoid allowing the portraits to overhear.

"I never forget anything, my dear boy," answered the Hat in the same conspiratorial tone.

"Then you must realize that once I'm gone, Minerva McGonagall will become Headmistress, and she will return to using you as a means of sorting the students into the various Houses." Severus paused. The Hat understood as well as he did that sorting by personality type had been a major cause of the Death Eater phenomenon. Had the children been forced to live and associate with those different from themselves, it was much less likely they'd have engendered such hatred and animosity.

"I understand that," said the Hat, and it actually sounded sad. "Instead of the randomized categorization that you used, I am relegated to once again shoving the students into Houses by personality types. There is nothing I can do to prevent it."

"I believe there is. Over the years I've studied the charms placed on you by the Founders, and I believe I have found a way around them." Severus leaned in and whispered a few sentences. The Sorting Hat jumped up and down a bit on the desk, excited. "Do I have your permission?"

"Yes, do it," squealed the Hat.

Snape snapped his wand from his wrist holster into his fingers, took aim, and murmured a charm too quietly for anyone else to hear. His wand swung in a perfect arc over the Hat, back and forth like a pendulum, and suddenly a blaze of bright light flashed through the room. Another mumbled charm sent up a bronze mist which materialized around the Hat and began to slowly swirl about it until it had worn itself thin and vaporized into the air. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

At last Severus said in a very low tone with another sidelong glance at the portraits, "It's done. Your function is to Sort the students, and so you shall…no one needs to know that from now on, you aren't bound by the old ways. Listen to their thoughts, take into account their strong fears or preferences, but if I may offer a suggestion, I'd say split children from the family House as often as possible. Place into Slytherin those whose families are most vocal against it."

"It is much harder to rail against your own," chuckled the Hat.

"In time, perhaps the prejudice against my old House will be forgotten, and we will have you to thank for it," said Severus as he placed the Hat carefully back onto the shelf.

"And you, Headmaster. And you," replied the Hat in all earnest. "I wish you well in your new life. Shall I compose a song for you?" It cleared its...throat?

"That won't be necessary," Severus answered hurriedly, turning to gather up his box. "I'm really not one for long goodbyes, so I take my leave." With a last look around, he backed up to the fireplace, spun round with a grand billowing of his robe, and_ floo_'d home.

(**A/N:** I am sorry to keep beating this to death, it's just I have never done this before and am as inexperienced as anyone else. People have asked me how to order my book without a kindle: I just learned that on amazon dot com you can download a free app that allows you to download e-books to your computer without needing a kindle. I put the link on my profile page. Thanks to any and all who support my endeavor to be a 'real' author!)


	94. Snapshots Part 5 of 5 The End

15

The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 94 (Snapshots Part 5 of 5—The End)

**May 2009**

When Dolph wandered into the kitchen for breakfast, Tim was already up and about, the meal on the table. Not really unusual, the kid being an early riser, but Dolph had made it clear years ago, after Ophelia quit to marry Marshal, that Timothy was not responsible for cooking for him. Nonetheless, he frequently arose in the morning to the smell of bacon and toast, fresh brewed tea, and the sound of frying eggs. Now, at twenty, Timothy hadn't been a kid for quite a long time, and his pattern had become well entrenched.

"Timothy, I've told you a hundred times, you don't need to cook for me," Dolph said, even before greeting him.

"I know, Dad," Tim answered with a smile, sitting down and taking a drink from his pumpkin juice. "I want to do it. I wish you'd stop feeling like you're taking advantage of me."

Dolph slid into his seat, picked up a piece of buttered toast, and nibbled the corner. He was still tired; last night they'd battled a huge fire that took hours to put out and clean up after, his magic not being exactly welcome in the muggle force as an aid. "I'm knackered. How can you be so cheerful?"

"I'm not an old man like you," grinned the youth.

Dolph scowled mildly and swilled his cup of tea. He gasped at the heat, immediately following it with cold pumpkin juice to quell the scalding in his mouth. "Hot! And don't get cheeky, brat."

Tim chuckled softly and began to eat. Much had changed since he'd been that skinny twelve-year-old boy begging to be allowed to live with this wizard, and since he'd been afraid of being abandoned or unloved. Now as tall as Dolph, strongly built and muscular like his dad, for two years he'd been working with his father as a part-time firefighter, a job he loved as much as he loved working with the animals in Uncle Rab's clinic. However, he was admittedly much younger than Dolph, and the event last night hadn't posed that much of a challenge, all things considered.

"Dad, I have to talk to you about something." The statement came out of the blue, and Dolph raised his head in anticipation. Surprises inevitably tended to be bad. Tim took the _Daily Prophet_ from the chair beside him and held it out to his father.

Warily Dolph plucked it from his hand, glancing down; the paper had been folded so as to show one particular article: _Researchers and Assistants Sought_. Frowning in confusion he scanned the article, then looked up at his son. "I'm not sure what you're aiming at."

"I want to apply to work on the project," Tim said. "It's like it was made just for me—I mean, I'm uniquely qualified. They're trying to find a cure for lycanthropy, and who better to help them do so than a werewolf?"

"And that is exactly what worries me. Do you honestly want to make it known that you're a werewolf, son? People don't take well to it."

Tim hesitated to reflect. From the moment he'd come to live with Dad, he'd been careful to guard his status not only for his own sake, but for that of his father. Was it really prudent to come out and let people know? And yet, if there was a chance to be free, really free, he wished to have a part in that deliverance, if only to expedite it. "The muggles around here where we live will never know. And the researchers will need test subjects, won't they? Why not use a test subject who is also involved in the cure?"

_Because I don't want you exposed to the hatred, the filthy looks of those who don't understand._ Was that really his call? Timothy was legally an adult; if he needed to do this, who was he to stand in the boy's way? And if they were successful, in part due to Timothy's contribution, how could he take that away from his son? Reluctantly he murmured, "If you're set on this, I won't object to it. They need witches or wizards skilled in Potions…I suppose a letter of recommendation from Snape would go a long way in getting you in."

Timothy smiled and nodded, relieved. He'd passed Professor Snape's grueling Advanced Potions course of study here at home with private tutoring; few, aside from Potions masters, had more knowledge. "Yes, it would. And did you notice who's sponsoring the research?"

"No." Dolph looked down at the paper again, reading it more carefully, and a slow smile spread across his face. "Lucius Malfoy, my old friend, what are you up to?"

"He loves Marcus," offered Tim. "I suspect he's trying to find a way to cure him—and in the process, all of us."

"Yes, well…" Dolph knew Lucius well enough to assume there was more to this than helping Marcus, no matter how much he loved the boy. Malfoy was notorious for angling for public acclaim, but whether this was the case or not, he didn't want to poison Timothy's mind against Lucius. "I think you need to take into account that you could work for years on this project with no results. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, Dad. I also understand that I'll be a werewolf forever if a cure isn't found. I'd like to try."

Dolph nodded, a bare inclination of the head. So be it. If a chance existed for his son to be healed of this terrible affliction, he must stand behind him. "You have my blessing and my wishes for total and quick success," he said softly. "Now pass the marmalade."

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**November 2010**

Bundled in a heavy wool coat, fur-lined boots, and a warm cap, stomach aflutter, Marcus strolled along the corridor to the stark, barely decorated Hall where all the meals were served for the students at Durmstrang. He rarely came here, seeing as he was not magical, and therefore not a student. However, of late he'd come to fancy one of the girls in the sixth year class, and she'd invited him to have lunch with her. How could he say no? He thought fleetingly that he ought to have stopped to take off his heavy clothing he'd been wearing for his hunting expedition in the surrounding wood…too late for that.

He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. Rows of tables crammed with boys and girls lined the room; their chattering voices filled the air every bit as much as their bodies filled the space. A long table at the head of the room was occupied by most of the professors, though his father was notably absent. Tate liked to take his meals with his wife, his son, and his little daughter in his private quarters, though on special occasions he made a point of being in attendance in the Hall. Pulling off his hat, Marcus glanced about for Rada. She was nowhere to be seen.

"Looking for someone?" asked a deep voice behind him.

Marcus turned to see a sullen seventh year boy—looking particularly surly, even for him. "As a matter of fact, I am." He moved aside to let the boy pass, but the lad stood his ground.

"Rada isn't up for grabs," the lad went on, the menacing tone intensifying.

"I wasn't aware it was any of your business," retorted Marcus. "If you're planning to lay claim to her, Grigor, you're a bit late."

"She is mine!" spat Grigor. "She's been mine all year."

"Oh, all of two months," said Marcus, rolling his eyes. "Funny how she never mentioned you when I escorted her to town last week, or when she asked me to meet her here today."

Grigor took a step forward so their faces nearly touched, his breath sending waves of onion odor. "There is no way in hell she'd choose a squib over me," he hissed, laying bitter emphasis on the word 'squib'.

Marcus snorted out loud. In sarcasm dripping with venom, he replied, "Right. She'd much prefer a stench-laden ape who frankly would be a step up if he _looked_ like an ape. Since I don't believe she's that stupid, either she's blind and smelling-impaired, or she likes me better. Which do you think it is?"

Grigor placed a hand in the middle of Marcus' chest and shoved—hard. Marcus staggered a few steps backward, righted himself, and surged forward, fist balled. No, he mustn't strike first, Tate had warned him about fighting.

"What's the matter, squib, you afraid to hit me?" taunted the boy.

"You're not worth the trouble." Marcus spun round and walked out just as Rada came rushing in, her face flushed from the cold air, her honey-brown hair flying behind her.

"Marcus, I'm sorry I'm late, I was flying—" She stopped short at noticing Grigor only meters away, glaring at them.

"Yet another thing you can't do, squib," Grigor said, grinning cruelly. "I play Quidditch, but you're stuck on the ground."

"I can fly a broom, moron," Marcus responded tightly.

"An enchanted one," Grigor retorted.

"Oh, and you can fly one that's _not_ enchanted?" asked Rada, storming over to him. "Why are you bothering him? Leave us alone."

"Oh, the big man needs a girl to protect him? Next thing he'll be crying to his mummy—who by the way seems awfully young to have a kid his age. Makes me wonder about her—"

It was all he got out before Marcus stomped over, lifted his fist, and slammed it for all he was worth into the blowhard's mouth. Blood spurted and trickled down Grigor's chin as he screamed and leapt back. A second later he spat his two front teeth onto the floor. He raised his wand, but not before Rada had hers aimed right between his eyes.

"Don't even try it," she warned.

Marcus stepped up, fists still at ready, and snarled at Grigor, "I'm adopted. And if you ever make fun of my mother or father, I'll pound you into a puddle of blood." _Or wait till the full moon and rip you limb from limb._

The commotion wasn't missed by the professors, for the students in the near vicinity had kicked up a cry, which spread rapidly through the Hall. Within moments two teachers had forced their way through the throng to the back of the Hall, and Marcus and Rada were on their way to the Headmaster's office while Grigor was being escorted to the infirmary.

Marcus waited impatiently in his father's office, pacing back and forth as he'd so often seen Tate do. This wasn't fair. Grigor started it, why wasn't he here? Alright, yes, he was getting his teeth put back in, but that was beside the point. He'd _started_ the whole thing! And Rada hadn't done anything!

He stared out the window for a long while, then turned to the girl. "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault, you shouldn't even be here. I'm sure Tate won't punish you, but you'll probably miss lunch because of me."

"It's okay. He deserved it, and I'm glad you hit him. I'm not exactly hungry, sitting here in the Headmaster's office," she said, trying to smile and not quite succeeding. Her finger traced the grooved pattern in the wood on the side of her chair.

"Marcus." Dimitar Tanassov strode in looking imposing as always in his black garments that fit him like a glove. Unlike his typical self, he wore a frown directed at his son.

Marcus automatically faced his father, and Rada stood up, not sure what she was supposed to do. Marcus began with, "Rada had nothing to do with it, Tate. She was just there."

"Is this true?" asked Tanassov. The girl nodded dumbly, and he waved a hand at her. "Go on, then." After she'd scurried out, he faced his son again, expectantly waiting for an explanation, and knowing that whatever it might be, it would be the truth.

"Grigor likes Rada. He was saying mean things, calling me a squib," Marcus started, and winced as he realized he came off as a whiney crybaby. That was never good.

"And that's why you knocked his teeth out?" asked the man dryly.

"No. He pushed me, then he insinuated that Mum was a loose woman to have me at such a young age, so I punched him." Marcus held his head high, unabashed, unrepentant.

"And you didn't see fit to tell him you're adopted?" Dimitar went on.

"I did—after I hit him," Marcus answered.

To Tanassov the boy looked proud of himself, and he honestly couldn't help feeling proud himself. Marcus had grown to a fine young man of sixteen, willing to defend Luna's honour as a boy should defend his mother. Most certainly it was hard to be in his place, a squib among magical children, and every so often he was taunted for it, yet he didn't let that get in his way. Tanassov sighed softly.

"Marcus, I'm going to have to punish you. Despite the fact that I'd have done the same in your place, I can't have my son running wild and fighting. Grigor will do a week's detention with one of the teachers for provoking the altercation, and you will also do a week's detention in my lab. The pupils need to see that you've been dealt with, too."

"Yes, sir."

Dimitar studied the boy. He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"No. Just that I missed lunch with Rada," said Marcus, his blue eyes twinkling. "Can you give her detention with me?"

"I think not. Come on, your mother will have some food left for you." He put his hand on Marcus' shoulder as they left for their quarters. As they walked, he smiled to himself. Yes, indeed, he was very proud of his son!

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**December 2018**

"We've been back from Salem all of four months and already you've decided you're in love. You're crazy!" Aidan padded up the stairs at Malfoy Manor beside his brother, shaking his head. At eighteen, the idea of tying himself down to a girl was repugnant to him.

"My life," Adriel intoned dryly. "And why are you following me around?"

"I'm not 'following you around', dork. Ladon is supposed to meet me for a pick up game of Quidditch, if it's any of your business." Aidan gave his brother a shove on general principles. Adriel pushed back, knocking Aidan against the wall.

"It's cold to be playing Quidditch, don't you think?" asked Adriel as they marched abreast down the hallway.

"My life," Aidan shot back, smirking much like their father.

At that moment Khala came out of her room into the hall, wearing what looked to be a two-piece red snowsuit. On her head was perched a Russian fur cap, the flaps pulled up and fastened on top. Long, whitish blond hair streamed down on either side of her perfectly formed face, and when she smiled her grey eyes shone. "Hi, Adriel. Hi, Aidan. I heard you coming—but then, a deaf person would have heard you."

Adriel grinned back at her, approaching to touch the cap. He tapped it lightly. "I've seen people wear these in Massachusetts. It's gets very chilly there. You, however, look particularly fetching in it, Khala."

"Thank you for noticing," she answered. A thought flitted through her mind that Adriel had certainly not inherited Uncle Severus'…how could she put this delicately…snarky personality, for which she was glad. She hadn't quite decided about Aidan yet; he had his moments of being fun, but he did tend to be a bit abrasive.

"And Happy Birthday one day early," Adriel whispered in her ear.

"Thank you again," she said, turning her head to him, her lips so close to his they almost touched.

Aidan coughed loudly. "So, you two are going to play in the snow? I thought you had a date or something."

Khala flushed, her pale skin morphing to pink. "We're going to play with Draco's kids, then we're going to dinner, and the rest is none of your business."

"I think Scorpius would rather play with us," Aidan answered. "The two younger ones you can have."

"How very kind of you," Khala retorted, sneering. "But Scorpius hasn't got back from Hogwarts for Christmas holiday."

Aidan sneered back, so perfect a replica of Severus' sneer that it gave the young woman chills. By all means, they could spend the day in a who-can-sneer-best contest, one she'd never win, or he could just get to the heart of it and be done with it. "Look, am I the only one who thinks this is bizarre—you two dating? For crying out loud, you used to sit on Adriel's back and rub his face in the dirt by the pond!"

Khala's face deepened another shade to scarlet. "We were children, and we were only playing."

Adriel scooted in close to her, wrapping an arm round her waist as much from affection as to annoy his brother. "No we weren't, we were fighting, but that was a long time ago." He smiled in a fashion dangerously similar to a leer. "I doubt I'd mind if you sat on my back now."

Khala's face looked like it might explode if it turned any redder. Aidan merely rolled his eyes and snorted. "Get a room. Then again, don't. Remember what Grandpa said about Uncle Lonny losing his clairvoyance."

"I'm not going to lose my clairvoyance. I'm not stupid," Adriel said, growing irritated, the reason not entirely clear in his mind. Aidan was looking out for him, even if he had a pissy way of doing it. Normally they got along brilliantly, so why was he being such a jerk about this whole Khala relationship? Merlin's beard, it wasn't as if Aidan didn't like Khala, everyone liked her, and if Adriel wanted more than that, shouldn't his brother support him?

Aidan shot him a withering glare. "So Uncle Lonny is stupid now? I'm sure he'd like to hear that."

"Would you _shut up_?" Adriel said, barely controlling the desire to lash out. He directed the next utterance to Khala. "Let's go downstairs. I saw Benedictus and Tea waiting for us."

Khala vacillated a moment, dancing back and forth from one foot to the other. "Go on without me, I'll be right down." She bolted back into her room, leaving the Snape brothers alone in the hallway.

"Looks to me like she forgot to use the bathroom." Aidan walked on past toward Ladon's room, then halted to clap his brother on the shoulder. "Have a good time, Adriel."

Adriel turned to face him, their brown eyes meeting and holding for several seconds. While they did not possess their father's talent in Legilimency, their shared twin bond, together with their shared clairvoyance, made reading each other ridiculously simple. He was being sincere, and it showed. "Thanks, Aidan. I know this is weird for you, but…"

"I know," said Aidan, nodding with a little shrug. "It is what it is. If it's meant to be, I wish you all the luck in the world." _And if not, I hope you don't get hurt_.

Adriel inclined his head in acknowledgement. "See you later. Have a good game." He tromped off down the hall and down the steps, where he saw Lucius casually waiting below. Too casually.

"Adriel, how good to see you," drawled Lucius. He wore that special lips-only smile that boded ill. "Where is my daughter for your first real 'date'?" He pronounced the word as if it were foreign to him, distasteful even.

"Hi, Uncle Lucius," the young man said automatically, even as a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him that if all went well, they'd be related one day for real—and he wouldn't be addressing him as 'Uncle' any longer. "She's coming."

"Perhaps we can spend some productive time together while we wait," Lucius suggested in his this-is-not-a-suggestion tone.

It surprised Adriel how well he remembered the facial expressions and tones Uncle Lucius employed, seeing as he'd been gone for years, and had only had visits between. He gulped and backed up to the wall. "Doing what?"

"I think we ought to go over the rules for respecting my daughter." Lucius took a step forward, and Adriel made to move back. The unforgiving wall behind him had other ideas, and he merely squirmed apprehensively.

"Papa already gave me the lecture," Adriel replied. Again he was startled by how calm he sounded, while his heart beat like a snare drum in his chest. He'd half expected the traitorous organ to pop out his mouth and choke him.

Lucius examined his fingernails briefly, letting the tension build. Then he gazed into the boy's face, his grey eyes half-lidded. "Did he? What did he say?"

"That I," squeaked the youth. He cleared his throat, looking up into space, recalling the exact wording. "That I am to treat her with utmost consideration, to protect her if necessary, and that if I sully Khala, you'll kill me…and if you don't, he'll make sure I wish I was dead for destroying your friendship and trust." He slid along the wall a tad, hoping to escape the inquisition. "And my brother reminded me of the threat to my clairvoyance, so you really have nothing to worry about."

"Do I look worried to you?"

Adriel studied the man for a split second. Nope, he did not look worried in the least. Haughty…menacing…homicidal maybe…but not worried. "No, sir."

"Good. We appear to be in agreement then," said Lucius, smirking. "Have a nice night, and do bring Khala back at a decent hour."

"I will, sir." Funny that, how he'd changed so quickly from 'Uncle Lucius' to 'sir'. Malfoys had that effect on people.

Just then Khala stomped down the stairs, brow puckered in indignation, eyes blazing. "Father, I overheard most of what you said to Adriel. How can you be so horrible, threatening him that way?"

Feigning affront, Lucius turned to Narcissa, who'd been standing in the doorway of the drawing room and only now Adriel noticed her. He'd been rather busy trying to avoid the evil eye coming from the patriarch. "Narcissa, did you hear me utter a single threat?" Lucius asked innocently.

Narcissa strolled up to stand beside her husband, gracing him with a loving smile. "Of course not, dear. You don't need to give voice to threats." She squeezed Lucius' hand then moved on to Adriel, where she paused in front of him. Her smile seemed somehow less loving and more…scary. One hand reached up and she stroked his cheek with her fingertips. An icy undercurrent ran through her speech. "I love you like my own son, but we all know that unless you become my son by marriage, you'll behave yourself. Don't we?"

"Yes, ma'am," Adriel said, feeling like a little boy all over again. For some reason, her demeanor alarmed him more than Lucius', maybe because he'd expected it from the man of the family.

"Mother, you're as bad as Father!" Khala snapped, taking the young man's arm and dragging him away from her parents. In a low voice she confided, "Ignore them. They do this to every boy who gets up the nerve to ask me out. They're trying to rattle you."

"It's working," confessed Adriel.

Khala scowled at the older couple again, and they smiled benignly back at her. "We're going outside with Tea and Benedictus. Have you got a problem with that, too?"

"Have fun," Narcissa said cheerily. Once the youngsters had gone, she looked over at Lucius and sighed. "They do make a lovely couple. If we don't scare him off, it may prove he's got what it takes to handle being a part of this family."

"Indeed," agreed Lucius. "I wouldn't mind blending our family with the Snapes."

Narcissa, gazing dreamily into space, answered, "They'd have beautiful, clever children—"

"—who will perfect the art of—"

"Potions?" finished Narcissa.

"I was going to say _sneering_, but sure, let's go with that," Lucius replied drolly. He sidled up to her and wrapped his arm round her waist. "Shall we retire to our room, my love? Draco and Astoria are out, the children are all busy, and…I think you know where this is going."

"Absolutely I do," she answered in a solemn tone. "We need to pick out a new colour for the walls. I am so tired of—"

"Narcissa!" he exclaimed, looking hurt.

She tittered and leaned into him. "Honestly, Lucius, you are so easy…"

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

**March 2020 (Albania)**

Bashkim slogged through the semi-wet field, his face twisted into a grimace. In the distance he noted a large, gnarled tree trunk snapped off most of the way down, its rotten wood now visible even from so far away. The greater part, the broad canopy of branches, lay broken and defeated on the ground, covering part of the field where he'd been ready to plant his beet crop. His wife had been right, the old apple tree had fallen after all these years. Despite the fact that it hadn't yielded apples in more than two years, he'd hoped it would come back to life; they could ill afford another setback in their already impoverished lives. And now he'd have to remove this mess before he could even plow.

Sighing, he approached the tree to inspect the full impact. Standing directly in front of the mini-disaster, he sighed again. He'd need the team of horses, and help from his teenaged son to drag the tree away and chop it for firewood. Then there was the actual plowing, and planting, and hoping a pelting rain didn't kick up and ruin all their hard work. Even now dark clouds gathered above him.

Bashkim turned to go back to his house, when from the corner of his eye he spotted movement. A tail? He spun back and marched round the tree, where a goat was busy gnawing at something on the ground. Not surprising, really, since the blasted things would eat anything. He pushed it aside, while it bleated angrily and poked him with its horns.

There on the ground lay a small bundle of fur, and at first Bashkim thought the goat had killed an animal of some sort. He nudged it with his muddy boot. No, this wasn't even remotely alive, there was no blood, and it resembled the shape of a box. No animal he'd ever seen. Where had it come from? He glanced up at the tree trunk, and his hand ran over a thick knot where a deep hole had once been, but had ripped open when the trunk split and fell. His brows furrowing, he bent to pick up this strange offering from his apple tree.

A rawhide thong that had once held the bundle together tore loose with scarcely a touch, and the fur fell away to reveal two small books, both bound in brown leather. Neither the faces nor spines of the books held any writing whatsoever. Bashkim opened one of the volumes, his brows dipping more. It wasn't written in any language he knew, though he recognized the numbers as probable dates; why would someone write in a foreign language and hide the books in a tree trunk? He thumbed through, scanning the contents, then did the same with the other manuscript. Judging from the dates, which ranged from 1951-1970, and the handwritten entries, he concluded these likely held no historical significance. In fact, they were probably someone's diaries from long before he'd been born—back to when his parents had been children. How they'd come here or why, he knew not, and cared not. He had other things more important to think about than intruding on someone's private thoughts.

"Here, enjoy yourself," he said to the goat as he tossed the diaries into the mud at his feet. Whatever the goat didn't eat, he'd plow under the field for fertilizer. He looked up at the threatening sky once more and headed back to the house. Tomorrow they'd work on the tree; today it looked like rain.

(**A/N: **Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the ride. This series has been a pleasure to write, if not always an easy task over these past few years. For those who may not have read the previous parts of the series, the list is as follows:

_The Beginnings of a Death Eater_

_I, Too, Shall Follow_

_Death Eater No More_

_The Voldemort Diaries_

Again, thank you, and I hope you join me for my new Harry Potter story. I have yet to title it, and it will not be a part of this series, so it will not have the characters I created or the events I made up. In fact, it will be about Severus and Harry—but NOT a comfort or father/son fic, as those make me a tad nauseated. I plan to take some time off, but do plan to write another fic, so if you'd like to be informed when it comes out, please subscribe to Author Alert with the button below. Cheers!)


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